


Rioting Emotions

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 90s Nostalgia, And Greg appreciates them, Anderson Is A Nice Guy, BAMF Molly Hooper, Dating, Drinking, Eventual Johnlock, Exhibitionism, F/M, First Times, Fluff, Friendship, Light Bondage, Lots and lots of sex, M/M, Molly gets a make-over, Molly has moves, Molly knows her knots, More Sex, More sex like lots more, Mrs. Hudson sees all, Mrs. Hudson's on the pull, Mycroft is a prat but he's a good brother, Red Hot Lovers, Relationship Issues, Relationship Negotiation, Revelations, Sexy Times, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Smoking, Stranger Sex, Surprise Party, That poor waiter, There's anal sex and then there's anal sex, Toby the cat is disgusted, Towel dropping shenanigans, Unrequited Crush, cursing, lazy mornings in bed, sexual identity crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-22 23:18:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 68,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9629531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: In the late 90s, ages before Sherlock Holmes gathers his few friends around him, Molly Hooper meets Greg Lestrade one night. He's not a DI, she isn't a pathologist, they are just strangers who share a hot encounter.(For the purposes of my story she is slightly older than in real life,  and he is slightly younger). Also, I'm going on the assumption that Riot Grrrls and 90s fashion, etc. were at least somewhat popular in the UK as they were in the US.I don't believe this is more than a Mature rating, but if anyone disagrees, let me know and I'll alter it to Explicit.As the years pass, things change, and not everything is as simple as it appears.This is a Molly-centric fic but it is growing and all our regulars make an appearance.





	1. Chapter One

_London_

_1997_

          Stamping her boots to try and generate a little warmth into her legs—why she had ever thought ripped fishnet tights on a night this cold was a good idea now escaped her—Molly huddled into her denim jacket and half-heartedly tried to button her flannel shirt as she flicked her lighter repeatedly. The striker refused to produce a flame and she cursed under her breath. This was not her night. If it weren’t for the persistent drunk that had been bothering her inside the club, she would be in the dank warmth of the crowded space even now, enjoying her smoke in comfort.

          But because he was being such a colossal wanker, and because she had lost sight of her girlfriend, Molly had ducked out into the alley to find a little quiet. Unable to produce a flame, Molly yelled “Fuuuuuck!” and threw her cheap plastic lighter against the wall. It cracked and dropped to the ground and she exhaled in frustration, about to turn around and head back inside. A movement out of the corner of her eye sent her whirling around, a distressingly girly and weak sounding yelp strangling in her throat.

          “Hey, hey…sorry. Didn’t mean to scare ya,” the man stopped a few yards off, holding his hands up to show he was harmless. “I was having a fag and I was going to offer you a light.”

          Holding herself stiffly—nothing said he couldn’t be trying to lull her into a false sense of security—Molly kept her distance. “Thanks.”

          Moving slowly, as if he feared he would spook her like a wild animal, the man stepped forward, into the weak light cast by the security light over the backdoor to the club, and extended his cupped hands. Molly tucked her cigarette between her lips and leaned toward him; he struck the lighter and she held her wavering Djarum Black to the flame. The end lit, she sucked and stepped back, blowing a thin stream of scented smoke into the air. “Ta.”

          “No problem.” He tucked his lighter back in the pocket of his black leather jacket and leaned against the brick wall, looking up at the night sky. “You must be freezing.”

          She grunted; of course she fucking was, it was January. At least it wasn’t raining or snowing. He looked warm enough in his boots, jeans and leather jacket. She briefly fantasized that he would slip his jacket around her, the warmth of his bigger body sinking into her chilled flesh…with a snort she jerked herself out of the idea. Men didn’t do that sort of thing anymore, especially for absolute strangers. There wasn’t anyone she could count on but herself. Not anymore.

          They smoked in silence, and she slowly relaxed. He was probably just a fellow smoker looking for a little quiet. “Too loud in there for you?” She smirked to herself; when he had stepped into the light she had seen that he was older than the rest of the crowd, probably late twenties.

          “Mm,” he pulled out another cigarette and lit it off the butt he had been smoking. “Something like that. What about you?”

          “There was this drunk…”

          He made a sympathetic noise in his throat, “You wait long enough and hopefully he’ll pass out or forget about you, I suppose. But if he keeps bothering you, let the bartender know.” He shook his head, then flipped his dark hair out of his eyes, “You don’t have to put up with that shit. And drunks can be dangerous.”

          “Yeah,” Molly dropped her cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with her boot, “Thanks.” She hesitated, she never smoked more than one at a time, being a novice, but she was suddenly a little reluctant to go inside. “Thanks for the light…” She paused and he helpfully supplied his name.

          “Greg,” he offered, transferring his smoke to his other hand and holding it out to shake, “you’re welcome—“

          “Loo,” she said. It wasn’t _untrue_. Louise was her middle name, and she had been calling herself Loo for a few months, wanting to be someone different. But the problem was, she had been Molly for nineteen years and she was finding it hard to remember to be Loo. The different clothes helped, as did the black hair dye and the new look. If she played Loo long enough, maybe she’d forget Molly and leave all of Molly’s problems in the past.

          His fingers lingered for slightly longer than necessary, and she enjoyed the warmth of his hand and the tingle his touch gave her. She wasn’t normally like this, flirting with the idea of getting off with a stranger. But his look, his touch, the very air was telegraphing his awareness of her and his interest. Should she do something about it?

 

******

 

          Should he do something about it? Greg wasn’t technically on duty, he was scoping out this club on his own time, unable to let go of his certainty that the string of girls who had reported being drugged and date raped had been targeted here.

          But now he was being led off point by this tiny bird in the flowered combat boots, with her edge of distrust and her huge eyes which looked sweet despite the black eyeliner and the carefully cultivated air of disinterest. The copper in him wanted to warn her that it was incredibly foolish of her to stay out here in the dark alley alone with a man she didn’t know.

          The man in him wanted to see where this would go.

          It had been about six weeks since Karen called off their engagement plans, and he had done a lot of raging and drinking and was finally adjusting to the feeling of being single again. He definitely wasn’t ready for a relationship…but a quick shag? Yeah. Definitely.

          It was probably the reason he had thrown himself into work even more than usual of late; he hated having time to think, time to wonder what exactly he had done that drove his girlfriend of four years to back out of their engagement with the wedding just six months away. Work was a blessed escape.

          Maybe now here was another escape, even if it was just temporary. His mates had been telling him that he needed to get laid, that he needed to get over Karen, forget about her. Greg wasn’t sure that sex with another woman would be the solution to his bruised pride and battered heart, but he was suddenly feeling open to the idea. The girl in front of him was petite, her frame slight beneath her denim jacket, baggy flannel shirt and delicate little silky dress. These riot girls (or was it grrrrls?) acted tough, but Greg wagered a lot of them were just rebelling, most of them, probably. He wondered what Loo was rebelling against. He wondered if she wanted to rebel with him?

          A cold wind snaked down the alley, which had been almost windless during their time out here. She shivered and hunched into her clothes. Greg reached out hesitantly and brushed a ragged strand of hair out of her eyes, tucked it behind her ear, with its multiple piercings. She looked up at him quickly from under her heavy fringe and after a second she smiled slowly. Before his hand dropped away, she reached up and caught it in her own, brought it to her mouth and lightly bit his forefinger.

          Energy sizzled between them, and Greg stepped a little closer, dropping his fag so he could slide his other hand down her arm. She drew his finger into her mouth, sucked on it and looked up at him with burning eyes. She slowly withdrew her mouth from around his finger and smiled at him. With a muttered curse, Greg put his hand on her waist and ducked his head to kiss her. He gave her the opportunity to move away, to stop this, but she crowded closer, hooking the fingers of her right hand in the waistband of his trousers, and slid the other hand up his chest, curving it around the back of his neck as she held his mouth to hers.

          The kiss quickly grew heated, as they sucked and bit at one another’s mouths, sliding lips and thrusting tongues meeting and parting. His hands pressed her clothes to her back, slid down, parted over the curve of her hips, and then met on the underside of her arse, giving her bum a little squeeze as his lips moved to her neck. He gasped when she tugged his shirt up and slipped her hand in the waistband of his trousers, her fingers freezing against his skin. “Christ, lass, hold on or you’ll give me frostbite!” They shook with laughter, and she tipped her head back to meet his eyes; Greg was grounded by the humour in her eyes, her awareness: she was present in this moment and she wanted it as much as he did.

          Trapping her hand against his belly, warming it with his own, he went back to appreciating her arse with his other hand, and she hummed appreciatively in his mouth as he claimed another kiss. Pressing back against his mouth, Loo nudged him toward the wall, maneuvered him into leaning against it. “Better warm my other hand,” she whispered against his throat, as she stood on her toes to nuzzle against his carotid. Her left hand joined her right under his shirt and he sucked in a breath at the chill, and then exhaled rather hurriedly when she started unbuckling his belt.

          “Loo…”

          “Mm, Greg, yes, lovely,” she purred as she bit at his pecs lightly through his shirt; her hands were busy giving her access to his obvious erection and he was trying to mentally rein himself in. This was getting out of control…they couldn’t do this in a freezing alley, for Christ’s sake!

          “We should stop, slow down,” he panted as the back of her fingers brushed his rigid cock. She was opening his flies, giving herself room and he wanted to stop her even as his baser instincts urged him to shut the fuck up and let it happen. “I have a car—“

          Loo pulled his pants below his balls and his jutting erection sprang forth, causing a sigh to escape her lips. He felt the heat of her breath on his skin, sensed the wet nearness of her lips, and a shudder shook him. “Christ…”

          A pause, a sudden enveloping of the head of his dick and then wet heat and bliss. Groaning, Greg’s head fell back against the wall and he stared in wonder at the starry night sky as Loo’s mouth worked at his erection, her now-warm hands coming to join the play. Her tongue was working his frenulum and without his control, his hips flexed and he buried his fingers in her hair, “Je-sus!” Wrapping her hand around his shaft, she pumped as her slippery mouth slid over his glans and he choked out a warning as his balls tightened and he felt the spiraling heat in his belly. She pulled back, her hand squeezing and flexing on him as he came; laughing, she ducked her shoulder as ropes of ejaculate narrowly missed her.

          Legs shaking, Greg took a few deep breaths and finally looked at her, “Damn, lass…I can’t believe you did that…” He pulled his hand out of her hair, helped her stand, “Your turn.”

         

******

 

          Molly was thrilled by this sudden detour down a previously unexplored path in her psyche; the dark danger of sucking off a stranger in an anonymous alley…it was so unlike her, unlike even her alter ego, Loo, that she had been cultivating. For the first time in a year she felt free of the depression that had hovered in the corner of her eye at all her waking moments; the anger and abandonment she had felt since her dad died and left her alone had momentarily dissipated. Honestly, she didn’t even need Greg to take care of her, but it seemed rude to—oh!

          As Greg’s hand slipped between her legs and he rubbed and circled over her lips, pressing at her clit through her stockings and knickers, Molly felt a shaft of desire spear her. Suddenly she was a lot more interested in having her turn. Clutching his shoulders, she tugged him down for a kiss and claimed his mouth as he claimed her. “That feels so good,” she breathed, “but won’t you touch me?”

          At her permission, his hand squirmed into her clothing and then his bare fingers were on her bare folds, seeking the wet heat of her core. “Ah,” they both sighed simultaneously. Greg turned them so she was propped up by the wall and hitched his own sagging trousers up hurriedly before he lowered her stockings and knickers to better facilitate his explorations. The first orgasm hit her almost without warning, and she bit his lip in surprise. Cognizant once more, she tried to apologize, but he brushed her words aside, “Loo, there is _no_ need to apologize.” His voice was leavened with amusement, and she flushed, feeling young and inadequate. Normally it took a boy a lot longer than that to get her off, _if_ it even happened.

          Fingers still buried in her, he gave her a leisurely kiss, moved to her jaw, trailed a hot path of kisses down her neck and worried the skin over her collar bone with his teeth. “More of the same or…?”

          “Condom?”

          A faint crinkle and then he tapped it against her hand. “More of everything then,” she breathed, rubbing her cheek against his stubbled one, and grasping his gratifyingly hard cock in her hand. They fumbled a bit then she stepped back and let him roll on the condom, and she tugged her stockings to her ankles, and he was on her again, grabbing her hips, her arse. Pulling her up and pressing her into the wall, Greg kissed her hard, sliding his fingers in and out of her heat. He quickly discovered that she couldn’t wrap her legs around him and the angle was a little awkward with her legs effectively shackled by her fishnets.

          Molly moaned in frustration and he panted, “Not to worry, darlin’ I’ve got you.” Turning, he crossed the alley and set her down next to the recycling container on the wall opposite. It was clean and dry and he turned her around and urged her to lean over it. Pulling her skirt up out of the way, Greg nudged her feet farther apart with his and bent his knees a little. He nudged her lips with the tip of his condom covered dick, swirling the latex sheathed flesh in her wet folds, teasing her clit and slowly sinking inside.

          Fully seated inside her, Greg gripped her hips tightly and began to move; she thrust back against him and he gave her bum an approving little slap. He was aroused, but the worst of his desire had been satiated and he was obviously happy to take his time and build the momentum.

           Molly didn’t feel the same, she growled at him to move faster, but he just laughed and gave her another little slap and kept up his torturous slow pace. Gripping the far edge of the container for leverage, Molly pushed her hips back against him and ground her pelvis, seeking the right friction…ah. Finding her perfect zone, Molly fought back against him, trying to spur him to move faster. “Harder,” she demanded, not even sounding like herself, “Harder, Greg, _please_ , harder!”

          “Like this?” He slammed into her, pushing her pelvic bone into the container, no doubt leaving bruises for her to find later, withdrew and then thrust hard and deep again.

          “Ohhhh, yessss,” Molly was finding it hard to keep up the movement she needed to get the maximum benefit from contact and he seemed to sense her problem and as she fell farther into a haze of need, he helped her out. Greg slid his hand around her hip, over her belly and rubbed stiff fingers over her clit, pressing hard as he pressed into her from behind. She came screaming, and he shuddered into his own release, continuing to thrust into her shallowly as the clenching of her inner muscles milked him.

 

******

          Collapsing, he let himself lean against her for a few minutes until he realized he was half crushing her and he moved off.

          They didn’t look at one another as they righted their clothes, and Greg was glad it was dark. Now that it was all over, reality was setting in and he was stunned that he had behaved this way. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before, not anything remotely like it and he couldn’t quite believe he had just screwed a strange woman in a public place. Greg hoped like hell no one had walked by, because neither of them would have noticed.

          Loo looked up and caught his eye, then she started laughing, “Oh my God, I can’t believe we just—“

          “I know, I was just thinking the same thing,” he admitted, grinning at her. “I’m a bit embarrassed, to be honest. This isn’t like me at all.”

          “Nor me,” she said, smoothing her hair. “I’m glad we both acted out of character and took a chance.”

          Realizing he felt bloody amazing, Greg caught her hand in his, “Wanna go for coffee?” _Talk_ , he thought, _get to know one another._

“I’m here with someone,” Loo said slowly. Seeing his expression alter she shook her head, “No, it’s just my mate, Lily, but I can’t leave her here alone.”

          “Bring her along,” he suggested, feeling like an ass but not wanting to let this girl slip away. She had, in less than a half hour, brought his self-esteem from a zero to a ten and he was reluctant to say goodbye.

          “You want to have coffee with me and my friend?” She sounded skeptical, and he wondered if she thought he was trying to suggest something.

          “Sure. Coffee, chat, you know. If Lily doesn’t have a boyfriend I’m sure I can call up one of my mates to join us.” Though who in the hell he could call at this hour he didn’t know.

          She was wavering, “Well…let me go find Lily and see what she says.”

          He opened the door and let her precede him in, “I’ll meet you up front, okay?”

          She smiled back over her shoulder at him before she disappeared into the crowd. “See ya in a bit.”

          Greg watched her go and then headed for the front of the club; maybe this wouldn’t be more than a shag and coffee, but damn he felt good.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Greg's relationship changes over time.

_London_

_2011_

It wasn’t just the sight of Molly Hooper—who normally dressed like an eccentric maiden aunt—standing there in a figure hugging cocktail dress, heels and push-up bra that floored Greg. It was that when she took off her coat and stood there looking sexy and confident, he suddenly (after what, four years of working with her professionally?) realized that he knew her.

          Of course he _knew_ her. But he had also met her before she started at St. Bart’s; he had known her briefly more than ten years ago when they shared one electric encounter in an alleyway. It wasn’t until this exact moment that the penny dropped and he knew he was looking at Loo. _What in the hell_ , he thought dazedly.

          He was derailed from his own thoughts by Sherlock verbally eviscerating Molly, mocking her for her crush and her fragile hopes and leaving her shaking with humiliation. Molly, voice trembling with emotion, took him to task for his behaviour; amazingly, the prick actually apologized, and even went so far as to kiss her cheek and murmur Merry Christmas. That was more than Greg had gotten when Sherlock had sneeringly informed him (and the whole room) that his wife was sleeping with the PE teacher. It wasn’t that he hadn’t known it, Greg thought in frustration and embarrassment, but for God’s sake, couldn’t Sherlock have just kept his mouth shut and left him a semblance of dignity?

          Greg was aware that he was being cuckolded, but it was his personal business to handle and not something for public consumption. As usual, Sherlock just opened his mouth and didn’t consider the consequences.

          Molly squared her shoulders and joined the party, and Greg made conversation with her, searching her face for confirmation. Yes, by God, he really did think she was Loo. This was the first time he had seen her outside of the morgue or lab, aside from running into her at impromptu gatherings at the pub, or meeting her in court when they were both giving testimony on the same cases. He’d never seen her so dressed up, never seen her wear cosmetics on this level. He remembered those brown eyes rimmed in dark eyeliner, those slim legs.

          The party, unsurprisingly, staggered along for a bit and then petered out; Mrs. Hudson pressed on, flitting around offering drinks and biscuits, but Sherlock is surly, sulking in his chair and doing little more than stare at his mobile, and grunt when John addresses him. John, God bless his hearty soul, keeps up a cheerful front, but Greg can tell he wants to throttle Sherlock. That makes two of them then. Molly finished her wine and took the empty glass to the kitchen, then came back nervously wiping her hands on her sides.

          “Um, well, I’m just…going to go then?” There is the faintest hint of a question, as if even now she holds out hope that Sherlock will relent, cheer up and start acting like a decent bloke.

          “Thanks for coming, Molly, and thanks for the jumper!” John enfolded the petite woman in his arms and she giggled, “Well, I thought you’d like it!”

          After asking Mrs. Hudson if she needs any help cleaning up and being waved away, Molly approached Sherlock’s chair a bit hesitantly, “Merry Christmas Sherlock. Thank you for inviting me round.” They all, Molly included, know he wasn’t the one who invited anyone. He managed to rouse himself from his sulk long enough to bid her a quiet farewell, and Greg, who is watching them, wonders what he is thinking. For that matter, he wonders—has done for a year and a half now—what it is that Molly thinks about Sherlock. Why she has such a deep crush on him when he is so terrible to her. Still and all, Greg doesn’t have any room to cast stones; look at his life, most people would wonder why he was still with Karen.

          Taking advantage of the opportunity, Greg took his leave and he and Molly both called “goodbye!” and “Merry Christmas!” from the doorway, before heading down the stairs. Greg fell behind and let Molly reach the street door before him. “Need a ride…Loo?”

          Stumbling in her heels, Molly fell against the door and turned to look at him. He expected her to deny it—why has she never once intimated that she knew him in all these years?—but even in the faintly lit entry, he can see her smile. “Greg. I wondered if you would ever figure it out.”

          A laugh barked out of him, startling Greg. He glanced guiltily up the stairs. “You mean you’ve known all this time?”

          “It took me about three weeks to place you, after the first time you walked in the morgue, but yeah, basically.”

          “Why didn’t you say anything?”

          Molly laughed, “What was I supposed to do? Bring it up over a corpse? Besides, I already knew you were married and it seemed, erm, indelicate to mention it. And you never said anything either. Honestly I wasn’t sure if you knew but were being discreet, or if you hadn’t copped to the fact that it was me.”

          Laughing ruefully, he circled his weary head on his neck, plunged his hands into the pockets of his Burberry. “Nary a clue. Guess Sherlock is right about me.” He tried to speak lightly but he was aware of the underlying thread of bitterness. Life was pretty shitty right now.

          “Not always,” Molly sounded a bit sharp, and he wondered if she were finally getting over her crush. Dimmock would be pleased, he had a bit of a thing for her. Greg frowned. Dimmock was nice, but too… _tame_ …for Molly. She needed someone with a bit more spark to them, only not quite as much as Sherlock. _Who are you suggesting_ , his mind sneered, _you? You’re old and past it and can’t even keep your wife interested._

          “No, not always,” he said gently, and reached past her to open the door, “So, you need that ride?”

 

******

 

_London_

_2014_

          “You knew!”

          Hands steady on the pipette she was holding, Molly looked up, “Yes.”

          Greg was nonplussed by her calm manner, but it took the fight out of him. Standing at the side of her work station, feet apart, hands on his hips, he felt as if an unseen weight, of which he had been unaware these last two years, had fallen away. “Jesus, was I the only one apart from the newspapers who didn’t know?”

          “It was dangerous, only a few of us knew,” Molly stripped off her gloves and went to wash her hands. Greg looked after her, studied the set of her shoulders and blew out a breath.

          “You’ve been holding this in for years, haven’t you? No one to tell, no one to comfort you.”

          He didn’t hear her sob, but he saw her shoulders heave and he covered the distance between them in a few big strides of his long legs. Grabbing her shoulders he gently turned her to face him. Her face was averted, and she thickly muttered something about wet hands but he ignored her to tilt her chin up. “Molly? You okay?”

          She shook her head and he pulled her in for a tight hug, wondering how she had managed to keep this tremendous secret for so long. “Poor kid,” he murmured into her hair and received a muffled snorting laugh in return. After a few minutes she pulled away and cast about for a tissue. Greg offered her one from the pack he kept in his pocket. “Better?”

          “Mmhmm.” Molly turned away to blow her nose and dispose of the tissue. “Thanks, Greg.”

          He pulled up a stool and sat next to her as she returned to her seat. “So, can you tell me why he did it?”

          She looked at him in surprise, “Haven’t you seen him yet?”

          “I have—he shaved a few years off my life last night in the parking garage at the Yard. But you know Sherlock, he swooped in mysteriously and then disappeared before I could pin him down.”

          Molly laughed, “I do know him. He showed up in the locker room this morning and just smiled at me. As if it hadn’t been two years since I last heard from him!”

          “Sounds like our lad,” Greg said absently.

          “Anyway…uh, well, it’s pretty simple. Moriarity had snipers in place to—to kill you. You and John and Mrs. Hudson. He was going to kill Sherlock’s friends.” Molly bit her lip and patted his arm when he went white with shock, “Sherlock knew the three of you would be in danger and so he devised a plan. And he needed my help. No one was looking at me anyway.”

          Greg heard the vulnerability in her voice and squeezed his hand over hers where it still rested on his arm. It was hard to care about someone only to be constantly reminded that you were incidental to their heart.

          “Well that’s a good thing, Molly. Thank God you weren’t targeted. I’m only sorry you had to carry such a huge secret all on your own.”

          “I couldn’t tell you,” Molly assured him earnestly, “We couldn’t be certain that he didn’t have people watching us all, plus Mycroft had me sign an Official Secrets Act so I couldn’t say anything for fear of being locked up.”

          “And now?” Greg teased.

          “Well, as far as I’m concerned, Sherlock’s brother can go bugger himself. He didn’t even have the decency to warn me Sherlock was back!”

          “Yeah, he isn’t the warmest of people, that’s for sure.”

          Molly sighed and scrubbed her face with her hands, “I’m happy Sherlock is back, I really am. And I’m so grateful not to be keeping this tremendous secret. But—“

          She doesn’t finish and she doesn’t have to; Greg knows what she is thinking. For good or ill, she had been in love with Sherlock Holmes for years and it was only after he was “dead” that she had moved on. Thinking about her fiancé Tom, whom he has still not met, Greg has to remind himself to keep smiling. Molly has her own legitimate problems, she doesn’t need his baggage as well. After extracting a promise from her that their Wednesday night dinner is still on, Greg leaves her to her work and heads for the lift.

 

******

 

          Following his revelation that Molly was Loo, Greg had felt a bit weird around her for a bit. Molly was one of seven women he’d ever had sex with—okay, _Loo_ was, but still, now that he knew, he had a hard time disassociating himself from the memory of their encounter. But because he was an adult and a professional, and they had to work together, he did.

          Because he was a male and going through a divorce (he decided he had spent too many years playing Happy Family and looking the other way when Karen cheated) he couldn’t help but look at Molly and remember their explosive night. While he would have liked a repeat of that, what he was happy to settle for was friendship. And so he started dropping by the hospital with a coffee for her when he had a little free time. Inviting her to quiz night at the pub proved a more successful way to get her to come out than the dart’s game he had set up. Soon, she was a semi-regular, dropping by the pub the Yarders frequented, happily sipping a pint and exchanging war stories and quips with the detectives.

          It was nice, forming a friendship with Molly Hooper. And that was all, Greg had frequently reminded himself, that he was doing, all he could expect. She was at least ten years younger than him, she had given her heart to Sherlock, and he was going through a divorce. And honestly, friendship with Molly was great. He was happy to be her friend; and if sometimes he wanted more…well, Greg had long ago learned that you didn’t get everything you wanted in life.

          Now, as a consequence, he was her friend and they met up for dinner occasionally, and had pub nights and even once in a very rare while, a film at the cinema. But those “dates” had grown farther and farther apart when she started seeing Tom. Now that she was engaged, Greg figured his tenure as her single male friend was coming to a close. The question was whether or not Tom would be accepting of their friendship and he’d eventually find himself a third wheel to the married couple, or if Tom would edge Greg out of Molly’s life. If he caught even a whiff of Greg’s attraction to Molly, no doubt Greg would soon find himself only encountering her through work.

          _Best watch yourself then, old man._

******

 

          The lab doors swung closed behind Greg and Molly dropped her façade. Hell’s bells, but she was so royally screwed. How on earth, she wondered was it possible to have feelings for three men? Her life wasn’t meant to be a romantic drama, all she had ever wanted was to fall in love, get married and be happy. Was that so much to ask? Why did she have to go and fall helplessly under the thrall of a brilliant, cold asexual (or whatever he identified as) like Sherlock Holmes and how could she in turn feel a warm flush of longing whenever she was around Greg Lestrade?

          He was so steady, utterly dependable; but more than that he made her laugh, he teased her like no one else did. She had let him in to an alarming degree; far more than she had Tom, she was guiltily aware. But he was the only person in her life that had known her as Loo and still knew her as Molly. Greg somehow seemed to stand in both worlds, her past and her present, and it terrified her sometimes, even if he didn’t know the full story.

          Then there was Tom. Tom, whom she did love, but whom she was sometimes afraid she didn’t love _enough_. He had brought her happiness when she was feeling full of darkness, given her companionship when she was lonely and afraid. Gratitude was part of the reason she had said yes. She was in her thirties, she hadn’t had a serious relationship in almost a decade and she was tired of being alone, tired of wanting what she couldn’t have, tired of waiting for someone who wasn’t coming back (only, of course, now he had). Whatever her feelings for Greg had been, he had never really acted on them, aside from broaching a friendship with her that she cherished. Until the last seven months he had been separated from his wife and seeking a divorce, which he had now obtained. And while Molly may be in love with a sociopath and might have dated and slept with a dangerously psychopathic Moriarity, she didn’t mess about with married men.

          Which was why she now found herself engaged to Tom, pining for Sherlock and confused about just what it was she felt for Greg. Friendship would be the easier answer, the safer choice, but Molly knew it wasn’t quite that. Simpler all around if she kept Greg firmly in the category of friend, appreciated having Sherlock back safely in the margins of her life, and focused on her relationship with Tom.

 

******

 

          _2015_

          The table cloth rustled and then Molly felt Greg’s hard, warm hand curl around hers as she slipped her own into his grasp. She glanced at him casually and asked with her eyes if he were alright. Squeezing his hand she thought about disentangling their hands but then thought, _sod it_ , and kept her hand in his. The poor man has already had a hell of a day, what with walking away from his capture of the Waters gang yesterday to rescue Sherlock—who, as it turned out, was fine—and spending most of the lunch and reception in a semi-foxed state. He was on his fourth pint and Molly had already given the waiter a death glare behind his back; so help her, if they bring him anything besides water or coffee from here on out—!

          Greg was alone, no date, no plus one, and she thinks that he looks depressed, probably a compound of work, his single state and the beer. Now Sherlock has made it worse, calling him out in front of all of the wedding guests and demanding he give an answer to how the Bloody Guardsman was killed. Poor Greg flubbed his answer, faltering to look sober and thoughtful, and so Molly put her hand in his. Purely for the comfort a friend can offer, of course.

          That was all—oh, bloody hell, what was this now? Sherlock had focused in on Tom, who was…oh Jesus. Molly didn’t realize the words had slipped out on a breath until Greg’s other hand joined in under the table and patted her hand that he was already holding. Meat dagger? Really? _Bloody idiot_ , Molly thought, and ordered him tersely, through tight lips to sit down. Flustered and sulky, Tom sank back into his seat and Molly could feel his glance fall on her but she refused to look at him. _I am marrying an idiot_ , she thought.

         

******

 

          Several hours—and one would be murderer in custody—later, Greg stood at the edge of the dance floor and watched Molly dance with Tom. Apparently he had forgiven her for nearly stabbing him in the hand, and she had decided to overlook his fuckwit tendencies. Greg sighed unconsciously and slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers; he was happy for her, he knew how much she wanted to be married, have a family to belong to. But he couldn’t help but think that she was making a mistake in marrying Tom. Although that could just be his prejudice speaking. _Shut up_ , Greg thought tiredly, _quit thinking about her like that. She’s not yours and she never will be_.

          Even if she ended her engagement with Tom, there was still the little matter of her…whatever it was she felt for Sherlock.

          That didn’t mean that when Tom headed toward the drinks and a slow song came on, that Greg wasn’t flushed with pleasure to find Molly at his side. “Greg, might I have the pleasure?”

          Staring a beat too long at her outstretched hand, Greg finally accepted, and they joined the couples on the dance floor. It is the most intimate—aside from their first meeting—that they have ever been. Molly fits beautifully into his arms, and because she is wearing unaccustomed heels, her face is closer to his. If things had been just a little different, Greg would have dipped his head and pressed his mouth to hers. He wanted to kiss her, and because he couldn’t, he just held her close and danced, and then he let her go.

 

******

 

_2016_

          “This has been one endless fucking day,” Greg grunted to Dimmock as they got back into his car. It was late and he had spent most of the day running between the Yard and 221B—which was a proper bomb site right now—and up to the hospital to visit Mrs. Hudson, and over to Bart’s to check on the analysis of the trace they had collected at the flat. Then he’d gotten the call that Sherlock and John had been found, as well as the nutter who had kidnapped them.

          Arriving on the scene late in the evening, Greg had been shocked to learn that the nutter turned out to be a previously unknown sister of the Holmes brothers. He’d gotten word that Mycroft had been found on Sherrinford Island, locked in a cell, shaken but safe, and Sherlock asked him to look after him. Turning the car back towards town, Greg reflected that it was the first time the younger man had called him by his proper first name. The first time he had asked for help rather than commanded him to do something.

          Something had cracked open in Sherlock Holmes and Greg thought he could see the beginnings of a good man, a good friend, ready to emerge. About time, he thought with weary fondness.

          Hours later, Mycroft rescued, statements taken, stacks of paperwork still to face come morning, Greg called it a night. “Thanks, folks, but it’s nearly three, and I think we’ve earned a few hours sleep. Go home and come back fresh tomorrow, alright?”

          Slowly the office emptied, and soon he was the only one on the floor, his desk lamp beaming a sharp circle of light onto his messy desk. His head aching, eyes burning from the late hour, he dropped his head into his hands. All Greg wanted was to take a cab home, fall into bed and forget everything for a few hours.

          But he can’t. All he can think about is John and Sherlock’s halting statements, Sherlock’s unwillingness to talk about Molly Hooper and how his sister had drawn her into her sick mind games. John had shed better light on what had transpired, and Greg felt sick thinking about what it must have done to Molly. To have her love dragged into something so sordid, to be forced to tell Sherlock she loved him and then to have the call immediately dropped—it leaves him with a sour stomach and an ache in approximately the direction of his heart.

          Finally he snaps off his desk lamp, leaves his desk in a mess, locks his office and makes his way to his car. Probably, he is too fatigued to be driving, and more than likely he should be taking that cab he thought about. Wise or not, however, Greg steers his car to Molly’s flat, and pulls up to the kerb, shutting down the engine and looking at the dark, curtained windows of her basement flat. Of course it is dark, she will have gone to bed hours since. It’s nearly four a.m. and any sane person, even one who has had her heart mangled, will be in bed.

          Nonetheless, Greg finds himself descending the steps to her front door. After standing for a few minutes with one hand resting on the door, he steps back, sits on the steps and texts her.

**I’M SURE YOU’RE ASLEEP, BUT IF NOT, I’M HERE.**

**OUT FRONT I MEAN.**

          Several minutes pass without a response, and he is nearly asleep against the wall when his phone beeps in his hand. Struggling to pull himself back awake, Greg pulls out his mobile and checks the messages. There’s a text from Molly.

JUST A MINUTE.

          More than a minute passes, and he has to slap his face lightly, scrub at his bleary eyes, as he waits. He isn’t sure why he is here, why he is pushing his presence on Molly when surely she wants to be alone—

          A faint light came to life behind the curtained window next to the door, and then the door opens and light flows out to touch the tips of Greg’s shoes. As if he has been enchanted, an exhaustion of the body and soul washes over him and threatens to roll him out to sea. He wants nothing more than to go to bed and sleep until all of his problems are gone. Since this is real life, and he is an adult with responsibilities, Greg stands slowly, grimacing as his left knee pops and his body twangs. _Not as fit as I used to be_ , he thinks sourly. Christ, he’s staring fifty in the face, what does he expect?

          “Molly.”

          “Hey,” Molly stepped back and he walked inside so she could close the door. The night air is foggy, chilly and her flat is warm, soft and inviting. Greg thinks about falling down, down, down into the softness of her carpet and down into a deep sleep.

          “I’m sorry to come by so late, but I just…I wanted to make sure you were okay before I went home.”

          Her face is hard to read in the dim light, but he thinks she has been crying. Her hair is mussed, falling out of a loose braid, and she is hugging her arms to her, her rainbow jumper over her nightie for warmth. “Thanks, I appreciate it, Greg. I’m—I’m…okay.” She takes a deep breath, “Is this about Sherlock?” He watches her face ripple with emotion, before she brings it back under her control. “He was high, wasn’t he? Did he—did he overdose?”

          “Ah, Christ,” Greg pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger, wished he were anywhere else. “No. No, he, ugh, hell. I don’t know how to explain it. Christ, I don’t even know exactly what all has been going on. But no, he wasn’t using. He’s fine. Shaken but fine.”

          Molly ducked her head, looked down at her sagging socks, and Greg, following her gaze, felt a swelling of tenderness in his chest, so startling in its intensity that for just a minute he think he might be having a heart attack. “I’m glad he’s okay. I’m glad it wasn’t drugs.” The crying begins so quietly that Greg is at first unaware that it is happening, and when she betrays herself with a sniff he doesn’t hesitate to wrap her in his arms. Leaning his hips against the back of a quaint, fat little armchair covered in a cabbage rose pattern, he closed his eyes and rested his chin on top of Molly’s head.

          Eventually, and actually far sooner than he anticipated, her crying ceased. Greg nearly opened his arms to let her step away, but his head is muddled, his reasoning fuzzy and she feels so goddamn good in his arms that he continues to hold the embrace. In the darkness of her flat, in the wee morning hours, they hold each other, without speaking a word.

 

******

 

          Unsure just what had woken him, Greg sat up, heart pounding. What—oh, it was Molly’s cat, Toby. He must have come to investigate Greg’s sleeping form and decided he looked like a good perch for a nap. Now the indignant cat sat on the far end of the couch, glaring at Greg. “Sorry, cat.”

          Reaching for his mobile, Greg looked around for Molly. He didn’t remember falling asleep on her couch, but this was indisputably her flat. The curtains were all drawn but sunlight seeped in around them, and he cursed as he realized that it was later than he planned on sleeping. Throwing back the duvet that covered him, Greg snatched up his phone, yep, it was ten in the morning. Jesus, he _was_ going to go home, sleep, shower and get back to the Yard by eight, but now there was no time to go by his place. Thank God he kept a change of clothes in his car.

          “Molly?” He raised his voice cautiously, not wanting to wake her if she were asleep.

          “Good morning!” Her voice emerged from her bedroom before she did, but when she rounded the doorway, he saw with relief that she was smiling. It was clear she had cried in the night, her face was pale and strained, her eyes pink, but she smiled as if she were happy to see him. “How did you sleep on my couch?”

          “Great. Honestly, I just passed out, I don’t even remember sitting down, much less falling asleep. Sorry to put you out.”

          “Nonsense, Greg. I would have been worried about you making it home safely. That couch is a bit short for you, I’d have slept out here and let you have the bed, but you were passed out before I could offer.”

          He blushed, something he hadn’t done in probably thirty years. Some comfort he ended up being, passing out on her couch instead of lending a friendly ear to listen to her heartache.

          “I’m glad you stayed the night,” Molly confessed softly, picking at the hem of her jumper. “I hated to be alone.”

          “Anytime,” Greg said hoarsely, then felt his blush coming back. “Um, I hate to run,” he said, folding the duvet and setting it on top of the pillow she had put under his head in the night. “But I was supposed to be in to work two hours ago.”

          “That’s my fault! I’m so sorry, but you seemed exhausted, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

          “Naw, Molly, its fine. I probably needed it.” Greg laughed ruefully, and sat down to put on his shoes. “It’s been a stressful couple of days, and that’s the truth.”

          “Do you want some coffee or tea? I can make breakfast.”

          “I need to go. Do you mind if I change in your bathroom?”

          “Of course not!”

          He went out to his car and fetched the go-bag he kept there, then excused himself to the restroom. After some coaxing from Molly he had accepted her offer of her shower and stepped gratefully under the hot spray, the water streamed over his tense muscles and if he’d had his druthers, he never would have left. Mindful of time, he lathered up with her body wash and gave his hair a quick shampoo. Drying off with one of her fluffy towels, Greg tried to ignore the way he smelled of her now, pretended he didn’t see her dainty knickers and camisole on the hook on the back of the door. “Do not picture her in those,” he muttered, aware it would necessitate a _cold_ shower.

          His lips quirked in amusement as he lathered up with a fruity scented shave lotion and started removing the stubble from his face with the new razor she had set out. Molly was fond of pink. He didn’t have a toothbrush with him, but he poured a little mouthwash into a small paper cup and swished it enthusiastically while he put on deodorant and then spat, hurrying to dress.

          Molly had been busy while he was in the bathroom. The flat smelled of coffee and bacon, and he groaned when he realized that she had cooked. Christ, if only he had time.

          “Here,” she said breathlessly, hurrying out of the kitchen. “I made you a lunch for later, in case you get too busy to stop, and I’ve made you breakfast as well.” She held out an insulated tote, a thermal travel mug and a bacon butty wrapped in paper serviettes.

          “Molly Hooper, I love you,” Greg said fervently, without stopping to think. They simultaneously turned matching shades of hot pink and avoided one another’s eyes. “Erm, yeah, uh, I have to run. Sorry to be out the door like this. Thanks for the shower and breakfast—“ he juggled his things as he started out the door, “and the couch and putting up with me—“

          Molly laughed from the doorway as he started up the stairs to the street, “Greg, _go_.”

          Driving one handed through London traffic was never advisable, but he said to hell with it and broke several speed laws on his way to the Yard. Eating the sandwich ferociously, Greg thought that Molly Hooper was too kind for her own good. There was no need for her to have made him breakfast and lunch, especially since he had essentially invaded her house in the middle of the night and then passed out and left her to cover him up. But he appreciated it, he really did. He had gone to comfort her and had instead received succor.

          He was on the receiving end of a few good natured insults about his tardiness as he walked the hallways to his office, but no one really seemed to mind. After all, he had been going full out for two days.

          Sherlock was another matter however. He found the man and his loyal friend waiting for him in his office; John was sitting stoically on the battered sofa while Sherlock prowled like an angry cat in a cage. “There you are, Lestrade!” _So I’m back to my last name_ , Greg thought in amusement, rounding his desk and setting down his things. “We’ve been here _waiting_ for you. Given the events of the past three days, I rather thought you would have—“

          Looking up from stowing away his things, Greg found Sherlock riveted on him, an arrested expression on his face. “Sherlock? Mate, you alright?” Maybe the last few days had been too much for him.

          “You—you’re…” Sherlock seemed to be focused on Greg’s hands, and he looked down. Just a coffee mug and lunch, what—oh. It was Molly’s Doctor Who mug, and Molly’s Royal College of Medicine lunch tote that he had in his hands. His eyes rose to meet Sherlock’s, and he thought the other man looked slightly wide eyed, as if he had had a shock. Even as he watched, Sherlock sniffed, then again, and looked even more unsettled. “That’s Molly’s—“

          John looked up, “Sherlock, you alright? What about Molly?”

          Greg fought to keep his expression neutral as Sherlock struggled with his shock. He hadn’t given any thought to coming in to work smelling like Molly’s honeysuckle and jasmine body wash, or her strawberry shampoo. He felt as if he were bathed in guilt, even though he hadn’t done anything.

          Sherlock snapped out of his shock, “Nothing. It’s fine. Now, shall we get down to work? You insisted on us returning to go over our statements again, and yet you were late. Let us get on with it.”

          Watching the younger man, Greg had a feeling that whatever had transpired during his phone call with Molly, it hadn’t all been down to stress and pressure from his sister. Maybe the road was now open to happiness for them? Was it even possible for Sherlock to participate in, or maintain a relationship? And why was he feeling so sick at the thought? _None of your business_ , he reminded himself, pulling his notes towards him _, not your girl._


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Greg. They're just so damn delightful. Have another helping of them, my darlings.  
> The fallout of Molly and Sherlock's notorious phone call. Greg's reaction--or lack thereof--to spending the night on her sofa. Molly's thoughts on both men. The answer to whether or not Greg knows what a silver fox is! Surprise birthday parties! Cute Irish bartenders! Kisses! Blow ticklers! (Well, not really, but I love a blow tickler).

_London_

_2016_

            As he returned to their table with baskets of chips and burgers, Molly moved their pints, the newspaper, and the draughts game to clear a little room for him. Greg set down their lunch and slid back into the booth across from her, “Here you go, Molly, one medium burger, extra onion, all the way, and extra crispy chips.”

            “Mm, yum!” Molly took her basket and pulled up the top bun, so she could add ketchup to her burger, then cut it in half, so it would be more manageable. As she sat down the ketchup, Greg seamlessly handed her the malt vinegar and she shook it liberally over her chips. They ate in silence for a few minutes, comfortable enough in one another’s presence to eat without pretense and not worried about conversation. Somehow, they always found something to talk about; and when they didn’t, it wasn’t an issue.

            “So,” Molly began, wiping her mouth and reaching for her pint, “how’s Anna?”

            A smile turned Greg’s already handsome face into something devastating, and Molly told her libido to shut up. “She’s great! I miss her like mad, of course, but she loves it. I guess I need to give her space to be independent, but if I had my way I’d see her every weekend.”

            “Aww,” Molly smiled at him, “that’s so sweet…she’s a lucky girl to have you.”

            “I’m the lucky one,” Greg countered. There was a tiny fleck of ketchup on his lower lip, and Molly was aware of a strong desire to lick it clean for him. Jesus, she was going to be forty in a few years and she felt increasingly like a horny teenager; although that was mostly down to Greg’s extreme silver foxiness.

            _Friends_ , Molly reminded herself forcefully, _just friends_.

            They finished their lunch and pulled the draughts board back between them. This had become their Sunday ritual, any day that they were both available; meet at the pub, drink a few pints, share the papers, play a game or two, have lunch and then sit and chat for a while. Sometimes they mixed it up and met for brunch instead, or took a walk in Regent’s Park. Rarely did they meet at one another’s home, and Molly wondered if Greg’s reason was the same as hers. It seemed safer to spend time together out in public. There had never been any declaration of feelings, any awkward discussion of what kind of relationship they wanted. Somehow they had a tacit understanding that theirs was a friendship. But she, at least, still felt that crackle of sexual awareness whenever she was around him.

            Molly thought Greg might have had feelings for her at one time, but the whole ugly affair with Eurus and the phone call with Sherlock had cooled any interest he might have had. Ever since the night that he slept on her couch, he had kept a little reserve between them. Probably for the best, but she had to admit—if only to herself—that she was disappointed. But he had obviously decided that her obsession with Sherlock was undying. It was amazing that even now Sherlock Holmes was interfering in her love life.

            She had spent years (far too many years) of her life, wishing for more from Sherlock Holmes: more attention, more respect, more time, more physicality, more affection, more…more of everything. Molly found his mind dazzling, his beauty breathtaking, and his sharp wit (when not turned on her) amusing. Loneliness, longing and a smidgeon of delusion had seen her dangling after him hopelessly for years. After his fall, she had moved on, found Tom (who, as it turned out, only looked startlingly and embarrassingly like Sherlock, but was just too dull and too dim to hold her interest for long) and tried to accept that Sherlock would only ever be her friend—or as close to friendship as Sherlock allowed himself.

            There had been one or two hints, since his return, that perhaps he felt _something_ for her, but she wasn’t sure what those feelings were. Although it was entirely possible that he was completely asexual (and there was a lot of evidence that pointed that way), and somewhat plausible that he was homosexual (his relationship with John Watson was intense, but she thought it bordered more on obsession than attraction—on both their parts), there had still been moments that gave her pause. When he returned from the dead and asked her to spend a day solving crime with him, she had been puzzled, pleased and just slightly let down. But it had honestly been lovely; it was fascinating to watch him work, and she enjoyed the change of pace to her forensic work, and even though he had seemed sad and she definitely was, at the end of the day it felt like they had achieved some sort of closure.

            That closure had been ripped wide open by his phone call earlier in the year. So many conflicting emotions had ricocheted inside her that Molly felt as if she were giving birth to her love for Sherlock, bringing forth something that had spent years gestating. In many ways (although she didn’t come to realize it until much later) it had been cathartic, hearing him tell her he loved her, and being able to finally, finally, _finally_ say the words back. What had not been as healing had been seeing him face to face for the first time afterward.

            It took quite a bit of time and some halting (and rather shy!) explanations on his part for her to be comfortable around him again. Once Molly knew what had prompted the call she wasn’t so much hurt as she was embarrassed. What finally made it easier to see him and work with him was the realization that Sherlock was embarrassed too; so much for the man’s imperturbable calm.

            More even than their own feelings, the two of them had writhed for a time under the obviously too-cautious way in which everyone had treated them. It only seemed to drag out the whole ordeal; until Molly found herself wanting to scream with frustration when John treated her overly solicitously, Greg gave her sympathetic glances or Mrs. Hudson tsked pityingly. What finally tipped Molly and Sherlock back into a comfortable working relationship and more natural friendship was a late night in the lab, an argument over an autopsy, an hour of cold silence and sulking; followed by grudging apologies, rueful laughter, a tentative near kiss and more giggles. “Best off friends, Hooper?” Sherlock had asked, looking almost lighthearted and Molly had spontaneously hugged him and agreed. Finally, her unrequited love for Sherlock had matured, just as she had…just as _he_ had, even.

            So now, here she was, thirty-eight years old, single, sadder, wiser and weirdly happier than she had been in ages.

            “What?” Greg asked, looking up to find her smiling. “Do I have food on my face?”

            “No,” Molly assured him, “I’m just really, really happy.”

            He smiled back, “Me too, Molly. Me too.”

 

******

 

            “I think he knows about the surprise party,” Sherlock murmured, sidling close to Molly, who had been bent over the open chest cavity of her current autopsy. She looked up, following his gaze to Greg, who was leaning against the counter, reading through the report on his murder victim.

            “Sherlock Holmes!” Molly reprimanded him under her breath, “Did you say something?”

            “Molly, please, if there’s one man in England who knows how to keep a secret, it’s me.”

            “Don’t look so self-righteous,” Molly reminded him sotto voce, “you only keep secrets when it suits your purpose.”

            “John made me swear on pain of death not to say a word. It’s in the vault.”           

            “It’d better be.”

            Greg flipped the folder closed, “Looks great, Molly, thank you.” He looked between them, shifted on his feet, then turned toward the door, “Guess I’ll see you later. Sherlock.”

            “Bye, Greg!” Molly called, and Sherlock watched him go.

            “It’s been years, you would think he would have made a move by now.” Sherlock spoke absently and Molly glanced at him, “What’s that?”

            “Greg,” Sherlock said, focusing on her, “He’s had a “crush” on you for years,” he formed air quotes with his long fingers, sneering a bit, as he was wont to do when it came to what he termed sentiment. “His divorce was over long ago, you’re not seeing anyone...I’m amazed he hasn’t asked you out yet. I suppose he thinks you’re still in love with me.”

            “Sherlock!” Molly was exasperated, “Will you _please_ stop bringing that up?”

            He looked at her in surprise, his changeable eyes looking blue under the florescent lights of the morgue, “But you’re not in love with me anymore, why does it bother you?”

            Feeling her cheeks warm, Molly cursed silently, “Agh, Sherlock, just because I’m no longer in love with you doesn’t mean it isn’t still embarrassing to have my ridiculous crush thrown in my face.”

            A look of what might have been hurt flashed on his face, “Is it so ridiculous to be in love with me?”

            Softening her tone she smiled at him, aware that only the two of them could end up discussing love over a corpse, “No, of course not. But it was very one-sided and hopeless and I dangled after you like a fool for years,” her blushes could have lit the Vegas strip at this point, “and it’s just a bit humiliating to think I was so needy.”

            “Well you’re not now,” he pointed out reasonably, “and it wasn’t one-sided. I mean, I wasn’t in love with you, but I do…you know.”

            “What?” Molly teased, seeing him look uncomfortable, “Do you love me, Sherlock?”

            “Of course I do, you’re my friend.”

            His simple, slightly huffy, response made her drop the teasing. “And you’re mine. But could we please refrain from harkening back to my crush all the time?”

            “I don’t care if we ever talk about it again. Sentiment is _boring_.”

            “Fine.”

            “Fine.”

            He went back to his experiment (which she was pretty sure was just a reason to get him out of the flat and away from John’s wrath over an exploding lab sample, and to allow him to linger near a friendly presence) and she went back to her autopsy and they worked in amiable silence. She was done, and the body back in cold storage when he spoke again.

            “Maybe you should do something about it.”

            “About what?”

            “Greg. His crush.”

            “You can’t do something about another person’s crush. And he doesn’t have a crush on me! We’re just friends.”

            “Friends who meet every weekend for hours, friends who talk to one another almost exclusively at the pub—despite all the other members of Scotland Yard present—friends who hold hands at John’s wedding—oh don’t think I didn’t notice, Molly Hooper. Friends who sneak glances at one another when the other isn’t looking. Friends who avoid touching more than necessary. Friends who check out one another’s arse.”

            Molly wanted to die, “You saw me?”

            Sherlock blinked, “I actually meant Greg.”

            “He checks me out?” Her voice was a breathless squeak, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Yes, Molly, all the time. It’s frankly ridiculous and I can’t imagine how you have failed to notice. If the two of you weren’t so busy watching one another’s posteriors all the time you might make eye contact once in a while.” He paused, “On balance, I’m grateful for the abstracted behaviour, as no doubt you would otherwise be copulating with your eyes all the time.”

            “Oh. My. God. _Sherlock_!” Molly buried her face in her hands, “Please stop talking. Now.”

            Looking totally confused, he complied, and she finished her paperwork in silence, mind whirling. Did Greg have feelings for her? And why hadn’t he done anything about them?

            Should _she_ do something about it?

 

******

 

            “Hey Eamon,” Molly greeted the bartender cheerfully, as she entered the pub. “How are you today?”

            The handsome young man looked up with a smile, “Well, good afternoon to you, darlin’! You’re looking fine and frisky today.”

            It was positively criminal, Molly thought, how cute he was, especially with his Irish accent and his pouty good looks. “Thanks,” she said on a laugh. “Are they here yet?”

            He indicated the snug at the back with a tilt of his head, “Indeed. What’ll you have? A pint?”

            “Gin and tonic, please.”

            “Coming right up.”

            Molly headed toward the back, heart fluttering at the thought of seeing Greg. They hadn’t seen one another outside of a professional setting since Sherlock’s revelation. She felt absurdly shy at the idea of seeing him now. Especially because this was the first time she would be meeting his beloved Anna.

            Anna was lovely; young and enthusiastic, all fluid limbs, dancing brown eyes and excited chatter. Molly was only about eighteen years older than Anna, but in comparison she felt about a million. When Anna excused herself to take a call, Molly watched her go and then turned to Greg. “I like your girl, Greg. She’s so like you! Her eyes and her way of moving, she even has the same smile.”

            Greg smiled back, but fiddled with his empty glass. “Thanks…that means a lot. Especially,” he exhaled and shook his head, “especially since she isn’t mine. Biologically, I mean.”

            Molly blinked, stunned and not sure how to respond. Finally she tentatively put her hand over his on the table, and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

            He turned his hand so they were palm to palm, and smiled at her reassuringly, “No reason you should. Anna doesn’t know. Hardly anyone does.”

            “Thank you for telling me,” Molly said, because she had to say something, and because she _was_ honored to be taken into his confidence.

            “I didn’t know, not at first. Karen…” he shook his head, “We were engaged, had been dating for years, and then a few months before we were to be married—not that long before you and I met that night—“ they both colored and avoided one another’s eyes. “She broke things off, said she wasn’t ready to be married. But a few weeks later she came and told me she was pregnant, so of course we got married.” He looked away, and Molly ached at the expression on his face. “I was upset with Karen, but I was excited at the thought of being a dad, and when Anna was born…God, I fell in love with her right away. She was my everything.”

            “When did you find out?”

            “When Anna was seven. She was in hospital and—well, anyway, I found out and needless to say, things were bad between me and Karen.” Greg was silent, and Molly bit her lip, wishing she had something to say. He went on, “It didn’t make a difference to how I felt about Anna she’s my daughter no matter what. But things were never the same between Karen and I. Turns out she had ended the engagement because she was in love with one of my mates.” He huffed a humourless laugh, “He didn’t want to be a dad, or get married, and so she came back to me. I stayed with her so Anna could have a home, two parents…a normal life. But Karen and I were never quite as close—the cheating didn’t help either, but at least it wasn’t friends of mine, in later years.”

            “Greg, I’m so sorry…and I wish I had something wise and comforting to say. All I know is that you’re a good man and Anna is a lucky girl to have a father who loves her that much.”

            “Thanks,” he looked embarrassed, and they dropped the subject. After a few minutes, Anna returned and they spent another hour visiting before Molly regretfully said goodbye. “I’ve got too many things to take care of this afternoon, I’m afraid. It was so nice meeting you, Anna, your dad raves about you, you know.”

            Anna smiled, and Molly didn’t care if Greg was her biological father or not, they had the same easy, happy smile, slightly crooked and just contagious. “I’m glad I finally got to meet you, Molly!” She smiled naughtily, “Dad raves about you, too.” Molly went pink and Greg coughed. “See you again soon, I hope!”

            “See you,” Molly waved back over her shoulder and they watched her go, in her Chinese slip on shoes and her gray dress with the print of yellow and green pineapples and a funky lace collar.

            Anna grinned at Greg, “She’s got a one-of-a-kind style, hasn’t she?” He smiled fondly, and she continued, “I like your girl, dad.”

            “She’s not mine,” Greg said, “we’re just friends, I told you.”

            “With the way you look at her?” Anna scoffed and moved to the other side of the booth so she could lean across the table and grill her father, “I saw how she looked at you, and the way you smiled when she walked in the room. You can’t tell me she’s just a friend.”

            “Molly and I have known each other a long time, and we work together…it’s better to just keep it at friendship. That way no one gets hurt.”

            “You or her?”

            “What?”

            “Who are you trying to keep from getting hurt, you or her?”

            Greg paused a beat and then said he supposed he was trying to keep both of them from getting hurt.

            “You wouldn’t hurt her, dad. You stayed with mom all those years even though she was always cheating on you.”

            His face was pained, “Anna, honey, no…your mom—“

            Shaking her head she gave him a sad smile, “It’s alright, dad, I know. You both tried to hide it from me, but I knew. But even after all mom did, you were always kind to her, even if it was just in front of me. And I figure you were kind to her when you were alone, because she still talks about you fondly. The two of you are still friends!”

            “We never wanted to hurt you…remaining friendly is the least we can do for our girl.” Greg nudged her foot with his until she looked at him. “You mom may not be perfect but neither am I. Don’t picture me as some kind of plaster saint. It takes two to make a marriage and it takes two to keep it alive. I could have done more.” Her mutinous expression said otherwise, but she nodded. “Anyway,” he went on, “Molly’s more than a decade younger than me. She deserves someone younger, less cynical, smarter…she hasn’t had an easy life, she needs someone to make her happy.”

            “You could!” Anna rolled her eyes, “And honestly, dad, you act like you have one foot in the grave. You’re not even fifty yet and most of my friends find you sexy!” His face went red and he choked on his drink. Anna giggled, “You didn’t know? Hyacinth is _soooo_ obvious whenever you’re around, she thinks you’re a silver fox.”

            Greg shook his head and dropped his head into his hands, “Jesus, what in the hell is a silver fox? You know what, I don’t want to know. I erm, appreciate the vote of confidence kid, but Molly isn’t interested in me. Just friends. Good friends.”

            “You’re hopeless,” Anna sighed, “I hope Molly makes the first move otherwise it’ll never happen.”

            “Nothing ever will,” Greg said firmly, keeping his disappointment to himself.

 

******

 

            Biting her lip, Molly looked around the pub, “I thought I said we were going for FIFTY AND FABULOUS as our theme?” There were tasteful decorations bearing this sentiment, which she had put out, but they were countered by the OVER THE HILL banner Sherlock was hanging over the bar mirror with Eamon’s help. “This is funnier,” Sherlock said bossily, hopping down from the bar. “Besides, it’s true, Lestrade is “over the hill” at his age.” Leaning over, he stage whispered, “Better shag him while he still has it in him.” Eamon heard and laughed, and Molly scowled at them both. “Just mind your own business…and be nice! You promised to behave tonight, Sherlock.”

            “Yes, yes. Now, where can I put this inflatable tombstone?”

            “Crikey,” Molly muttered, and walked away to light the candles on the tables. Sherlock followed, not to help, but to harass her.

            “If you don’t want an old man like Lestrade, then young Eric is interested. _Very_ interested, I should say.”

            “Who?” Molly asked in bafflement, and then could have kicked herself for encouraging him.

            Sherlock nodded behind her, where Eamon was bringing out a crate of pint glasses, “Him. His pupils dilate when he looks at you, and he keeps trying to make you laugh, plus he follows you around like a puppy.”

            “He’s twenty-seven!” Molly shook her head at him, “ _Eamon_ is a friendly acquaintance, he’s just being nice. He doesn’t have any interest in someone my age. He must pull girls of twenty all the time.” Sherlock was crazy, there was no way someone as gorgeous and young as Eamon wanted her—oh. Sherlock smirked as the penny dropped, and Molly looked at him with wide eyes and a rounded mouth. “Do you think…?”

            “That Greg has doubts about his age and your interest? Yes. Which is why you need to make a move. Tonight, preferably. Get drunk if you must, although that seems unnecessary.”

            “Why should you care?” Normally he never got involved in anyone’s romantic life.

            “You should be happy, Greg makes you happy.” Sherlock shrugged as if it were obvious. “Besides, it’s convenient for me, if the two of you become a couple. You won’t be in danger of falling in love with me again and Greg’s already dull mental powers decrease when he is receiving regular sex, and thus I shall get away with more.”

            She swatted at him but he just strolled away smirking. Where was John? He was supposed to be watching Sherlock. Who was an insufferable prat.

            But was he right?

 

******

 

            “A drink sounds like a good idea on a night this nice,” Greg said casually to Sally, as she hopped out of his car. “It’s been a while since we came and played darts.”

            “That’s right,” she agreed brightly.

            “Looks like they have a do on,” he commented, indicating the colorful paper streamers cloaking the inside of the plate glass windows.

            “Oh well, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Let’s pop inside, anyway,” Sally said breezily.

            “After you,” he gestured at the door, and she hesitated but then slipped inside and stood quickly to the side as he came through the door. The room erupted with shouts of “Surprise!” and “Happy Birthday, Greg!” and he laughed and exclaimed and everyone rushed in to shake his hand and hug him and ask if he had been surprised and he agreed that it was a surprise alright and everyone crowed with delight at having kept it secret for months. After a minute he came face to face with Molly and gave her an enthusiastic hug, “You knew, didn’t you?” she whispered in his ear and he laughed even as he shivered because her warm breath tickled his neck and gave him all sorts of wicked thoughts.

            “I _am_ a Detective Inspector, give me some credit. But I won’t tell, don’t worry. Everyone can savor their surprise.” He gave her an extra little squeeze before he let her go, because it was his birthday and he was happy and she felt so good. Reluctantly, he let her go and allowed himself to be congratulated all the way to a bar stool and willingly accepted the pint pressed on him. The pub was milling with people; Anna, his elderly mum and his even older Uncle Norris, his brother Robby, his best mate, Malcolm, his personal trainer Henry, a few neighbors, Mike Stamford, several familiar faces from Bart’s, what seemed to be half his division, Sherlock and John, Mrs. Hudson, Rosie Watson and a few friends of Anna’s as well. He saw Hyacinth and hoped devoutly that she kept her distance.

            It was a great party, although he winced every time he saw an item emblazoned with OVER THE HILL. There seemed to be competing themes of black your-life-is-over and colorful still-sexy-at-your-advanced-age in the room and he suspected the latter were on Molly, who would never want to hurt his feelings. Also, she had oh-so-casually asked him recently what his favorite color was, and when he shrugged and admitted he had no particular favorite she had looked crestfallen. Which might account for the multi-colored balloons, streamers and table clothes; it was sweet of her, really generous of everyone to come together and celebrate his birthday, but he hardly needed a public reminder of his advanced age.

            But this was a time for merry making and laughter, not brooding over his age. Greg soon forgot his worries and had a wonderful time; there was great music, excellent company, plenty of booze, a spread of some of his favorite foods and even some dancing. He was glad for a socially acceptable excuse to hold Molly in his arms and asked her to dance twice. He would have danced with her more but he was the guest of honor, and also he didn’t want to appear as if he were paying her any special interest. Greg hadn’t missed the way Eamon was looking at her, the way he had looked at her for some time. Tonight might be the night he asked her out. Christ, what a depressing thought.

            Eventually the party mellowed, most people calling it an evening, the candles were beginning to burn down, the food was gone, and the music choices becoming softer and more romantic as everyone dropped into chairs, conversation blooming and the mood going lazy. Greg found himself—okay, he maneuvered himself—next to Molly, who was flushed, happy, looking beautiful in a pale yellow t-shirt, a full skirt made up of light pink ruffles, wearing her hair down. Normally she wore it up, since her work environment dictated sanitary conditions, and on weekends she usually had it in a ponytail. Tonight it was soft and flowing, she wore a touch more cosmetics than usual and her perfume was different, soft and flowery and so fucking enticing.

            _Christ I have it bad_.

            “Having fun?”

            “I am…you?”

            She nodded, leaned her head against his arm and hiccupped softly, “Mmmhmm.” Greg laughed, she was a bit tight, but not drunk. Deciding she looked like she needed a little help sitting up, and since it was his birthday he would take this chance to touch her, Greg put his arm around her and she snuggled up to his side. “You alright there, Molly?”

            Her head tipped back and she looked at him earnestly, her beautiful brown eyes luminous in the candlelight, “Oh yes Greg.”

            Something about the way she breathed her answer, the way she said his name on a sigh, caused his heart to clench and he fought not to kiss her. What a sad case he was, sitting here half-hard, longing for Molly Hooper.

            “It’s been a great party,” he offered lamely, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. “Really, you did a great job.” He laughed, “Two themes though?”

            Molly sounded grumpy, “Sherlock insisted on his tacky over the hill decorations. _I_ don’t think you’re over the hill.”

            Sighing, Greg disagreed, “I am though. Somehow I never thought I’d see fifty, as if I’d never age, just stay thirty-five forever.”

            “Don’t talk like fifty is the end of your life,” Molly argued, “You’re more fit than men half your age, and you have that whole silver fox thing going on.” Greg’s face flamed, Jesus, there it was again, _silver fox_.

            “I have been going to the gym more,” he said, because he had to say something.

            “Mmm, you look great,” Molly said appreciatively, snuggling her head back on his bicep. “You’ve got that sexy dad bod going on.”

            Dad bod? Greg mouthed the words, at a loss. Was that good or bad? It didn’t sound great, but she had said it like it was a compliment. “Erm, what?”

            Molly tipped back her head and he found her face close his, her eyes locked on his own, “You know, a dad bod. Not model perfect, but muscled, seasoned, just soft enough to be, mmm, touchable.” Proving her point, her hand slid over his torso, curving over the slight softness of his belly and running up over the center of his chest, coming to rest on his sternum. Greg was afraid she would feel his accelerated heartbeat, but was thankful that at least it would distract from his erection. They were in public, for God’s sake, and he was a grown man, what was wrong with him?

            Anna came over, trailed by her friends, “It’s been great, dad, but we’re going to meet some friends and go dancing. Happy birthday!” She gave him a hug and then hugged Molly, “Great party, Molly.” Her eyes, darting between the two of them were bright and Greg groaned, knowing he was in for teasing and interrogation the next time he saw her.

            Uncle Norris and his mom had already left, driven home by Robby, only a few people were left, and most of them were caught up in their own conversations and flirtations. Greg told himself to relax, to put some space between them, before he got too involved. He signaled a waitress and asked for some ice waters for the two of them, and leaned his elbow on the table, angling away from Molly a little. They sat in dreamy silence, listening to the music and the muted conversations around them. Their peace was destroyed when both of their phones chirped within seconds of one another and they reached for their mobiles. “Sherlock,” Greg said, seeing he had an incoming text even as Molly spoke the younger man’s name.

            **MAKE A MOVE ALREADY. WATCHING YOU DANCE AROUND HER IS TIRING ME.**

            Hell, was he that obvious? And now Sherlock was going to get involved in his personal life? Heaven help him.

            “Everything alright?” Greg asked Molly, seeing her staring at her phone. He wondered what Sherlock had said to her and hoped it hadn’t been anything indiscreet.

            “Hmm? Oh, yes. He, uh, he was just reminding me I promised to watch Rosie this Sunday afternoon.” Molly finished her water, “I know it’s your party, Greg, but I was wondering if you would mind driving me home? Are you alright to drive?”

            “Yeah, I’m fine, and of course I’ll drive you home.”

 

******

 

            “Why don’t you come in for some coffee?”

            Greg smiled at her, “Oh that’s alright, Molly. It’s too late for coffee.”

            Uhhhhnnn. “Or tea?” She smiled brightly.

            “No, thanks—“

            “Wine?” Molly screwed up her courage and put her hand on his thigh. Surely he couldn’t misinterpret this? Unless…was he being purposefully dim? Did he not want her? Horrified that she was making a fool of herself, Molly snatched her hand away and started babbling, “Oh God, Greg, I’m sorry! I was just—but then I thought maybe you—honestly, it’s okay, just go! I’m going inside and we’ll chalk this up to a little too much to drink and never talk about it, okay?” She forced out a laugh, “Just silly Molly, getting it wrong again.”

            God, would she never get it right? What was _wrong_ with her? Why would she never learn? Humiliated tears stood in her eyes and now all she wanted was to escape. If she could somehow manage to never see him again, that would be grand. Her hand was on the handle when he caught her wrist in his hand.

            His first kiss took her by surprise and his second took her breath away. Molly moaned into his mouth, not even caring if she sounded ridiculous or needy or anything. She just wanted more of his hot, delicious kisses. They came together in the middle of the front seat, held back by their seat restraints, and Molly moaned in frustration. “I have a bed right inside,” she suggested breathlessly, and was shocked when Greg pulled back and shook his head.

            “No, Molly…no, no don’t look at me like that. I want you,” he pressed his mouth to her forehead and cradled her face in his hands, “God knows I do. But you’ve been drinking—we both have—and I think in the light of day you’ll wish you hadn’t—I think you’ll realize it wasn’t me you wanted, it was just the drink talking.”

            “Seriously?” Molly jerked away and glared at him, and Greg looked shocked, “You are such an idiot, Greg Lestrade! Do you think I’m only doing this because I had a few too many? I’ve wanted you for years! Some detective you are!”

            To her surprise, he started laughing and she watched as he dropped back in his seat and banged his head against the head rest. “Jesus,” he sighed, rolling his head to look at her, “I guess I got it all wrong then, eh?” He took her hand in his and brought it to his mouth. “Molly, I do want you, God, more than I can express. But I’m too old for you,” his mouth twisted and he looked away, staring out the car window into the darkness as if he were seeing a scene play out in his head, “And I’m not exactly your usual type, am I?”

            Molly released her seat restraint, leaned over and put her hand on his—oh God, how sexy—slightly stubbled jaw and turned him to face her, “Maybe my usual type isn’t working for me. Maybe I’m crazy about you because you’re _you_ , Greg.” She stroked his face, “This isn’t a whim, Greg, I’ve had feelings for you for years and I’ve wanted you just as long. If you don’t want me,” she gulped and pressed on, “If you don’t want me, that’s fine. Just say the word. But please don’t think this is the drink talking, or that I’m confused about who you are and what I feel for you.”

            He was silent, staring into her eyes, and Molly started to despair. This was it, she had taken stupid Sherlock’s terrible advice and here she was, about to lose Greg.

            “Let me walk you to your door—please, Molly,” he insisted when she started to object.

            They got out of the car in silence and walked toward her front door. Her heart felt like it was breaking, and Molly tried to remind herself that she had a good life, a great career, wonderful friends and that she was finally comfortable alone. She had stopped thinking that a boyfriend was the answer to a happy life, and she believed it…only, she had held out such hope for a relationship with Greg. In so many ways he was perfect for her, and when she was with him, she felt so happy and complete, as if the thing she had been seeking all of her adult life was finally within sight, if only she had the courage to reach for it. Well look how that had turned out.

            Greg put his hand on her wrist as she slipped her key in the door. “I’m not coming in. God knows I want to, Molly, more than I think you understand. But there’s a reason.” He slipped his hands on her shoulders, pulled her to face him and she felt hope rise at the smile on his face, felt a flutter in her chest when he leaned in until he was almost kissing her. “I want to date you.” He did kiss her then, a soft press of his lips on her cheek, “I want to court you.” A tiny peck on the corner of her mouth, setting butterflies loose in her stomach, “I want to do every cheesy thing women love in terrible movies.” He rubbed the tip of her nose with his own, “Flowers,” a brush of his lips on her forehead, “Chocolates,” the heat of his breath as he leaned in to buss her other cheek. “Holding hands and calling each other silly names, and taking our time, no matter how hard it is,” His mouth hovered just over her lips and Molly thought it was entirely possible that she might spontaneously combust. “I want to take my time, Molly Hooper, until you’re going wild.”

            Greg’s mouth on hers unleashed a flood of happiness and pleasure so strong that Molly was left trembling, and she sank back against her front door, her arms around Greg’s neck, his hands on her hips. It was a long, slow, maddening kiss; each nibble on her lips, each stroke of his tongue in her mouth heightened her light-headed rush. They were both breathing hard, pressed together from thigh to shoulder, when he finally eased back and held her face in his hands.

            “Can I pick you up Saturday night?”

            Molly reminded herself she was a grown woman and couldn’t cry, “I have plans with my friends.”

            “Sunday?”

            “I’m watching Rosie.”

            “Oh yes. What are the two of you doing?”

            “Going to the park, probably.”

            “Can I join you?”

            “Yes!” Her eagerness was appalling but she didn’t care.

            He laughed and kissed her lightly, pulling back before it got too intense. “It’s a date then.”

            Their goodnight was lingering, but satisfying, and Molly leaned against her door when she had gone inside and locked the door. It was hard to let him go, when she wanted him so badly, but she was looking forward eagerly to his campaign of seduction.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sexy times for Greg and Molly as they date and become used to being a couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is still a Mature setting, but I welcome feedback.  
> Also, this is the first lengthy sex scene I have ever written for public consumption, and I hope it's okay.

          “Push harder, Greg! There you go, keep pushing—that’s right, you’re getting there, we’re almost there!”

          Greg grunted and flopped back, sweating and winded. _Definitely not in my forties anymore_ , he thought, _maybe it’s time to give up cigarettes for good_. “Christ, I’m knackered.”

          “I told you to pace yourself, you’ve got to build up to it. You did great though.”

          “If by great you mean complete shite,” Greg laughed and stood, a bit shaky. “No need to stroke my ego, I know my performance was a bit lacking today. Too many late nights.”

          “Too many cigarettes and too many pints, you mean.”

          “I’m going to take a shower. See you Wednesday?”

          “Ha! If you don’t call with excuses. I know how your job is; you’re a hard man to pin down.”

          Standing in the gym shower, Greg let the hot water pound on his shoulders and tried not to dream of a cold pint. He had, he thought ruefully, started with a personal trainer to help get him back in better shape and improve his stamina, wind and endurance; yet right now he felt like all he had done was sign up for punishment. But he knew it was working, he had improved his muscle mass and worked off some of the softness of middle age. There was only so much he could accomplish, however especially with his schedule.

          Clean and dressed in jeans, a t-shirt and trainers, Greg grabbed his gym bag and headed for his car, dialing Molly as he walked.

          “Greg, hi!”

          He smiled at the sound of her voice, her unadulterated enthusiasm and happiness that he had called. Dating Molly Hooper was an ego boost and a half, he felt like he was ten feet tall. Sally had told him to stop smiling so much, it was inappropriate in a homicide investigator. The boys in his division (aside from Dimmock) smirked and kidded him about getting laid. As long as they didn’t say anything inappropriate about Molly, Greg was willing to take the ribbing in good humour.

          “Hello, beautiful…I’m running a little behind; I should be there in about twenty.”

          “You sound out of breath, are you alright?”

          “Henry really pushed me today, just a bit wheezy.” He nearly made a joke about old age, but it was too close to the truth, so he kept his mouth shut. No need to highlight how old he was compared to her.

          “Well take your time, I’ll be here.”

          Greg plugged his mobile into the car charger and headed toward Molly’s. They had been dating for more than six weeks now, and it was so easy, so happy and good and just _right_ that he kept waiting for something to come along and mess it up. Aware that things might not work out, that Molly might realize Greg wasn’t who she wanted, that he was too old and broken for her, he had decided to make it as sweet as possible and enjoy every minute that it lasted.

 

******

 

          Today was their fifth official date. First had come playing in the park with Rosie, and ice cream after. Their second date had been intended to be dinner out, but Greg was held up with a case, and they ended up eating curry and watching telly (and snogging rather a lot). The third time was indeed the charm; Greg picked Molly up, brandishing flowers, and they had a lovely and sophisticated dinner at a charming restaurant, followed by a little dancing.

          Their last date had been miniature golf interspersed with a ridiculous amount of flirting (and several kisses and caresses bordering on inappropriate for a public setting). There had been what Molly thought of as encounters, rather than dates; Greg stopping by Bart’s with coffee and staying to chat for a few minutes, Molly showing up at the Yard late one night to bring him dinner when he had to pull a late one. Phone calls and texts peppered their days, and she thought of him all the time. Molly had never been in a relationship where the level of affection and interest was so reciprocal on both sides. It would be very, very easy to fall in love with Greg Lestrade.

          Their plans for this afternoon had been a walk in the Botanical Gardens, early dinner and maybe a film, but when Molly opened the door to Greg, she saw instantly how tired he looked. Great? Yes. Sexy as hell? Absolutely! But tired, definitely.

          He kissed her warmly and she had to resist melting into him; the man was so maddeningly sexy that she wanted to wrap herself around him the way Toby would wrap himself around her ankles when she opened his wet cat food. Honestly, she had no restraint around Greg. “Hi,” he murmured against her lips, and she smiled, “Hi yourself. Do you want to come in? Or shall we just stand here in the doorway?”

          Laughing, he walked into the sitting room and she shut the door. “So I was thinking, maybe we can skip the Botanical Gardens for now and just hang out? Here?” She gave him a hopeful smile, and crossed her fingers that he wouldn’t realize she was trying to get him to rest. He didn’t seem to suspect however, just acquiesced and soon they were settled on her sofa, he with his socked feet on the coffee table and his arm around her as she curled up beside him.

          “Telly?”

          “If you want…or we can just sit and chat.”

          “Lovely. How was work?”

          Greg grunted, “Long and frustrating. Let’s not talk about my job, however. How are things with you? Did you get any work done on your research paper?”

          Molly happily launched into a slightly more technical explanation than he had probably been expecting, but Greg listened intelligently and she was so happy to have someone—an intelligent, non-squeamish someone—to talk about her work with that she gave him a series of increasingly appreciative kisses when she finished. Before long he was stretched out on her sofa, with her draped over him as they kissed. “Hold on,” Molly said breathlessly, reaching for her phone.

          “You’re going to make a call _now_?” Greg sounded just a teensy bit frustrated, and she smiled over her shoulder at him.

          “No…just listen.”  Molly hopped up and set her phone in the stereo dock; she had cued up one of her favorite playlists. Melody Gardot sang softly as they sank back into one another’s arms, followed by Norah Jones, who sang them into a blissful haze of kisses. Soon they were pressed tightly against one another, the soft sound of instrumental gypsy violins playing as Greg lavished her with attention and she reciprocated more freely and joyfully than she ever remembered doing. Their clothes were still on—although rather disordered—but Molly wondered if they were finally going to make love. She was more than ready, but had a momentary panic attack trying to remember which knickers and bra she had on, and wondering if her bedroom were as tidy as she would hope.

          It seemed it was not to be; although it was clear Greg wasn’t suffering from a lack of desire, he slowly began softening the intensity of his kisses, and his hands smoothed her shirt back down. A very unladylike desire to demand he fuck her trembled on Molly’s lips, but she whimpered and accepted his decision to cool off. They lay for a long time, her head on his chest, listening to his heart pound powerfully under her ear. “Thank you, sweetheart,” Greg whispered, and she felt him kiss the top of her head.

          This old-fashioned dating, this long, slow, drawn out seduction was terrible and wonderful. Molly alternated between wanting to swoon with the delirious romantic suspense of it and wanting to jump him and fulfill the burning desire he had kindled between them. She had never met such a patient man before; if this was what happened when you dated an older man, Molly had to wonder that more women hadn’t died when their ovaries exploded.

          “Are you hungry?” Greg asked a little later, they were seated decorously, holding hands and chatting and Molly felt a bit more in control of herself. She might have been able to forget her unfulfilled desire if it hadn’t been for how wet she still was. She squirmed a bit. “Not really,” Molly pressed her thighs together and wondered if it would be crude of her to pop to the loo and take care of things…

          “Molly? What’s wrong?” Greg was looking at her in concern. Damn, he might be a man, but he was a detective, of course he had noticed her restlessness. She hoped he couldn’t read her lecherous thoughts on her face.

          “Oh…” his eyes went a bit darker than usual and she fluttered at how sexy he looked. “I certainly didn’t want to leave you feeling…less than fulfilled.”

          Molly went red, “I’m fine! Please, let’s not talk about it.”

          Greg slid his hand into her hair and she shivered at the touch. “Molly,” he breathed, looking just the tiniest bit predatory; her heart sped up. He kissed her, sliding his tongue into her mouth, flicking at the corners of her mouth, sucking lightly at her lip. “Come here sweetheart.” He coaxed her onto his lap, lying sideways across his legs, her upper body lounging against the arm of the sofa. He resumed kissing her, his left arm behind her, his hand in her hair; his right hand, oh God, was sliding up her leg, bring her skirt with it, cool air touching her thighs and the shivers that shook her came from more than the sensation. She wasn’t cold, she was burning up.

          Catherine Russell’s _Close Your Eyes_ was playing, and Molly obeyed, her already heavy lids slowly dropping as Greg’s hand slipped up her legs. His warm fingers softly stole between her thighs, and at his whispered command she moved her left leg to lie along the outside of his lap, so that he could—ah, ahh, ah yes. Molly barely noticed the awkwardness as she lifted her hips and they fumbled her knickers off. All of her being was focused on his right hand as he ran the pads of his fingers over her labia and softly down to her perineum in a move that caused a shivery bolt of fear and desire to pierce her.

          “Look at me, please, Molly,” Greg’s voice coaxed her to meet his eyes, even though she was slightly embarrassed at how open she was to him, while he remained clothed and in control, she was also incredibly turned on. His gaze was hot, his face tight with desire for her and she found it incredibly arousing. Greg held her eyes as he softly parted her folds, dipping his forefinger and middle finger into the wetness of her vagina. “Ah, God what a sweet pussy you have, sweetheart.”

          Face flaming, Molly wanted to close her eyes, bury her face in his chest, but he was holding her in place with his eyes and she blushed helplessly as he explored her folds, touching her with delicate passes of his fingers. He hadn’t touched her clit, or breached her, but she was aware she was panting as if her orgasm were approaching. The wait was excruciating but delicious; and when he finally brushed her clit with his thumb she jerked under his hand, her hips rising. “Oh, what a sweet little pearl, yes, God, yes Molly, you’re gorgeous.”

          His words were mortifying, exhilarating, and Molly thought she might die of embarrassment before she ever came. She wasn’t used to a vocal lover, wasn’t accustomed to praise of her beauty, especially in bed.

          Greg saw her, he knew, “Don’t be embarrassed, sweetheart, you angel, you’re beautiful, so beautiful,” he pressed her back against the couch, his hot mouth opening over hers, his lips and teeth and tongue feeding at her mouth. Molly gasped as he plundered her mouth with his tongue while his fingers slid inside her, filling her as he pressed his thumb down on her clit. She whimpered his name as she kissed him with a loose mouth, her approaching orgasm pulling her focus from anything close to skill or technique.

          She felt the building pressure, and gave into the need to move against his hand, thrust her hips so he hit it just—“Oh, God, yes, Greg, yes, yes, oh fuuuuuck!” Molly bore down on his hand, frantic, and sensing her need, he rubbed her clit harder and faster and she came with a drawn out wail of pleasure. “Oh,” she sobbed over and over, pussy quivering as the pleasure rolled out of her in waves. Greg sucked lightly on her throat, scissored her still hard clit between his thumb and finger, and the keen pleasure of it tipped her into a cascading orgasm that followed so closely on the heels of the first that she was unsure if it were the same one or not.

          Damp and limp, Molly lay in his arms, too dazed to move or speak. Greg kissed her softly, an almost chaste peck, and she finally focused on him, “Oh my God…”

          “Not quite,” he winked roguishly and incredibly she blushed.

          “Oh, I don’t know, I think you might have at least achieved demi-god status,” Molly said, her voice a bit rough. She rolled toward him, pressed her breasts against his chest and wound her arms around his neck. Following a soul-deep kiss, Molly pulled back and let one hand trail down his chest to his stomach. “May I…?” She fingered the button fly of his jeans hopefully, very aware of the hot, hard length of him behind the denim placket.

          “This was about you,” Greg said firmly. He moved her hand to his chest. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer—trust, me, resisting is ah, _hard_.” His wry tone and his expression made her giggle, but she sobered.

          “You do…want me?” Silly to think otherwise, given the obvious state of his arousal, but she was a silly girl.

          “Fervently,” Greg assured her huskily, and they shared another kiss. He pulled her close, “I’m mad with desire, but I want us to take things slow.”

          Molly snuggled into his embrace, and kissed his throat, he had a gorgeous, strong throat…all of him was gorgeous. “God you’re beautiful,” Molly sighed, and licked his skin, _mmm, yummy_.

          Greg shuddered, “That feels…great.” Understatement of the year, that. “Beautiful?” He scoffed, “Naw, that’s you, you delicious peach.”

          Molly glowed, she had never been courted like this; bathed in sweet endearments, complimented, cuddled, _cherished_.

          Snuggling into his chest, Molly wound herself around Greg and they just held each other, breathing in the other’s scent, feeling the thumping of happy hearts, spellbound in the glory of touch.

 

******

 

          “Stop smiling.”

          Pausing as she filled out paperwork, Molly turned in her desk chair to face Sherlock, who was lurking in the doorway, looking darkly handsome and mysterious in his Belstaff. “Pardon?”

          “You’re smiling from ear to ear, it’s unseemly for someone who a short time ago was elbow deep in a murder victim’s thoracic cavity.”

          Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Molly swung around and went back to her paperwork. “You’re the last person to lecture me about what’s seemly.”

          “You mistake my comment for censure. _I_ don’t care if you hum “Someday my prince will come” while you perform a post mortem; I am merely pointing out that others might find it distasteful. I’m not a hypocrite; I act upon my beliefs regardless of any toes I may step on. Since I care little for the opinions of others, I am not concerned about how the world perceives me. You, however, are very conscious of public opinion.”

          Parsing this rather long-winded (for Sherlock) answer, Molly tilted her head and regarded him quizzically.

          “Why are you peering at me like that?” Sherlock’s hand flickered tellingly toward his curls, but he realized what he was doing and brought that hand up to brace against the door. Vain twat.

          “Because, I just realized I’m really over you. Normally that would have mortified me and I would be locked in the Ladies crying. But now I just find you annoying.” It wasn’t her imagination that he smiled, although he tried to hide it.

          “Thankful as I am for a degree of composure on your part, might I ask that you restrain your lovesick attitude to places other than the lab? I expect professionalism from my pathologist.”

          “Not your pathologist,” Molly pointed out cheerfully.

          Sherlock huffed and left, and she hurried to finish her report. She wanted plenty of time to shower and fix her hair, as she was going out with friends for karaoke. It always took her a fair amount of alcohol to get up and sing, but once she was up there she wanted to look decent. Shutting down her work station, Molly pulled her purse out of the drawer and hurried out the door for the locker room; in her head she was composing a naughty message to Greg. Just something to make him think of her while they were apart.

 

******

 

          “You alright, boss?”

          Blinking, Greg refocused on his surroundings. Oh yeah, the looted jewelry store. “Eh? Oh, yeah, fine.” He put his phone in his pocket.

          Sally raised an eyebrow, “You sure?”

          “Yes,” Greg was irritated now.

          “It’s just, I called your name three times and you didn’t even blink.”

          Damn Molly’s dirty little text. It had been…captivating, to say the least. Greg smirked and pulled his phone back out, stopping to send a reply. Sally turned around and snorted, oh yeah, the boss had it bad for Molly Hooper.

 

******

 

          Stepping into the cab after her friends, Molly felt her mobile vibrate in her hip pocket. She pulled it out and saw a text from Greg. Grinning, she wondered what he had thought about her message—oh. Pink cheeked, she fumbled to put her phone away.

          “What are you doing?” Meena demanded, “Texting the boyfriend? No men tonight! It’s ladies only.”

          Sheila giggled, “Were you sexting? Look how red she is—grab her phone!”

          There was an undignified tussle in the backseat of the cab and Meena yelped when Molly snagged her bracelet in her hair. “I’ve got it!” Sheila panted triumphantly, holding the phone close.

          “Read it!” Meena shouted, sitting on Molly.

          “Don’t!” Flailing in Meena’s surprisingly strong grip, Molly tried to reach her phone.

          “Oooooh,” Sheila fanned herself and fluttered her eyelashes exaggeratedly, “My, my, my but the Detective Inspector has some plans for you, Molly.”

          “What’s it say?”

          “Sheila, don’t you dare!”

          Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Sheila pressed her free hand to her heart and read out loud, “’Someone’s getting a proper spanking the next time I see her. No fair leaving me hard and wanting, rosebud.’”

          The driver flinched at the whoops and shrieks coming from the backseat, “Ladies, ladies, please!”

          They paid him no mind. Molly shoved Meena off of her and sat up, trying to right her clothes; goodness knew what her hair looked like now. “Give me my phone you lunatic.”

          “Wowza, Molly. Corporal punishment _and_ he calls you rosebud? I’m jealous.”

          “You should be,” Molly said loftily, putting her phone firmly in her pocket. “Greg is fabulous.”

          “How is he in bed?”

          “None of your business.” Molly certainly wasn’t going to explain that they hadn’t had sex yet—especially not in front of the driver.

          “That good or that bad?” Meena queried, peeking in her compact to repair the damage their wrestling had wrecked.

          “Oh, my God, look at that smile,” Sheila sighed, “I am sooooo jealous!”

          Molly shivered, if the sample of his skill as a lover that she had had thus far was any indication, she was in for an amazing time.

 

******

 

          “No ligature marks, but it was clear the victim had been immobilized and strangled, and there were—oh, thank you!” Molly smiled sunnily at the man running the kebab stand, and sipped the lemonade he had just handed her. “Could I get extra pickled cucumber please?”

          Greg stifled a laugh at the man’s horrified expression, clearly he wasn’t used to talk of strangulation at his business; Molly was completely unaware, bubbling away happily. They took their food and strolled down the street; what had started out as a ride on the London Eye and then drinks and dinner had been sidelined when Molly suggested they go for a walk. “I’ve been inside all day, hunched over bodies for hours. It feels good to get outside and move.”

          Finished with their meal, they held hands and wandered his neighborhood. Molly stopped to pet a Golden Retriever being walked by an older couple and they spent some time chatting and admiring the dog. As they moved on, Molly looked back at the dog longingly. Greg had a sudden foolish urge to suggest they adopt a dog.

          Dark was falling, and they headed back toward his place, “How about a beer?” He suggested, “I know a friendly little place where the prices are reasonable.”

          “The bartender’s cute too,” Molly said ten minutes later as he brought her a drink. She looked perfect sitting on his leather sofa, her legs curled to the side, white eyelet skirt foaming around her legs. Her pale lavender tank top hugged her slim figure perfectly, enticing him with an excellent silhouette of her breasts. _Maybe I’m going too slowly_ , Greg thought, sitting down beside her and slinging an arm around her shoulders, _maybe tonight is the perfect night to go a little further_.

          They relaxed on the couch, watching an old episode of Top Gear, although Greg’s attention was divided between the banter over cars, and Molly’s soft skin. He traced lazy circles on her arms, rubbed his thumb over her collarbone, toyed with the lacy edge of her bra strap peeking out of her top. She melted against him, rubbing her hand on his thigh.

          “That’s a pretty car,” Molly commented about a Bugatti, and Greg grinned at her girlyness. “It’s almost the same color as the ribbon on that box of chocolates you sent me.” She smiled at him, “Did I say thank you for those?”

          “You did,” He dropped a kiss on her upturned face, “But you can thank me again.”

          “In that case…” Molly knelt beside him and wrapped her arms around him, one around his neck and the other around his back. She leaned in and ghosted her lips over his ear and he shivered. She traced a finger down his chest and he sighed. Greg fumbled to set his beer on the table without breaking their kiss. _Take it easy_ , he caution himself, _remember your plan_.

          Ten minutes later, Molly—topless and half out of her bra—was straddling his thighs and reaching for his fly. “Whoa, whoa, hold on honeybee, slow down.”

          “Don’t want to,” Molly nipped at his chin, licked his cheek, and proceeded to fling her bra behind her and slide his zipper down before he was even aware she had her hands on him.

          “Molly—ah, ah, _Christ_ , Molly…” Greg stopped protesting and let her touch him. Fuck, her hand felt amazing. His head fell back and she nibbled on his exposed throat as she stroked his cock. If he was going to slow things down, now was the time. Of course, that window of restraint flew closed when he made the mistake of touching her breasts. Small, yes, but oh so delectable. He coaxed her closer and drew her left nipple into his mouth, nipping and sucking as he palmed her right breast in his hand, rolled and tweaked the nipple

          “Sweet as wine gums,” Greg growled, releasing her nipple with a pop. He looked at the rosy, swollen nipple, looked at her small, gorgeous body, her face so pink and hazy with desire, and abandoned his campaign of restraint. “Couch or bed?”

          “Huh?” Molly looked at him fuzzily, her hand still in his pants, her ability to focus clearly shot.

          “Couch or bed?”

          Realizing the wait was over, Molly made to scramble off his lap, “Bed!”

          Not giving her time to move, Greg banded an arm around her waist, stood up and walked them straight back to the bedroom, Molly’s feet dangling against his shins. _Thank God my trousers didn’t fall_ , he thought, _otherwise I’d have taken us both down_. Setting Molly down at the end of the bed, he flicked on the light and turned back to her. Stripping off his t-shirt, he walked back to her, smiling with promise. It was the work of a moment to shed his trousers and pants, and he stood naked in front of her. Greg wasn’t vain, but neither was he self-conscious. He had one body to share with his lover and—

          Molly dove backward onto the bed and squealed, kicking her feet, drumming her heels on the mattress, “Oh my God!”

          Completely arrested, Greg was unsure what to do for a moment, “Molly? Are you—uh, what’s wrong?”

          She had her face buried in her hands and he couldn’t tell if she was laughing, crying or hysterical. “Come on, baby, you’re killing me here. I take off my pants and you freak out. I don’t know whether to be concerned or offended.”

          Greg leaned cautiously next to her on the bed. Lowering her hands, Molly looked at him and giggled, “Sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you…just, I mean, _look_ at you.” She gestured at his nude body, “You’re so ridiculously sexy and perfect and—gah!” Words failed her for a minute, “You’re so gorgeous and I just can’t stand it! You’re unreal, just so…perfect. Also, I’m _soooo_ not taking off my clothes in front of you now.”

          Blushing, Greg stared at her, feeling embarrassed, pleased and confused. Also, he was incredibly hard now. “I’m— what? I’m so sexy you refuse to undress?”

          “Yes.” Molly nodded emphatically, “The two of us do not go together. You’re too beautiful for me.”

          She didn’t seem upset, he thought, confused as hell, just…matter of fact.

          “I hate to disagree with a lady, but of the two of us, you, my little orange blossom, are the beautiful one. I’m just a scruffy old copper.” Greg lay down next to her, propping himself on his arm and giving her a flirtatious smile. He grinned when she looked at him with lustful eyes.

          “No, you are perfection, Greg Lestrade…complete and utter foxy perfection.” Molly reached out and caressed his chest as if she couldn’t help herself, and Greg kissed her shoulder and lightly bit her.

          “Much though I’d love to argue with you, wee one, I’m more interested in seeing you out of that skirt. It’s rude to leave me naked by myself.” Greg bent his leg at the knee and put his foot on the bed, leaving himself exposed. As he had suspected, Molly’s eyes immediately went to him, and then widened as he took himself in hand—so to speak—and gave his dick a nice, firm stroke from root to tip. She looked breathlessly lustful and expectant, and he grinned. “Tit for tat, as they say.”

          “You’ve already seen the tit,” she grumbled, batting at his hand when he reached out and tried to slide her skirt up.

          “Then show me the tat,” he leered.

          Molly laughed and met his eyes, “You’re sure you can bear to look at me in all my mundane glory?”

          “Glory is right,” Greg murmured, kissing his way from her shoulder down to her breast so he could suck her nipple into his mouth and give it a lave and a flick with his tongue. He began peppering kisses on her tummy as she shimmied out of her knickers and reached for the waistband of her skirt.

          Breathless with shyness, she lay naked in front of him, and Greg dropped his teasing, overcome with a sweeping feeling of thankfulness at whatever he had done to get here with her. “Just as I said, beautiful,” he affirmed, sliding his hand up her leg, cupping the boniness of her knee in his palm. Trailing his fingers up her thigh he saw a flare of feminine dismay and insecurity, so he leaned over and distracted her with an open mouthed kiss. His reptile brain was trying to take over, and he had to remind himself to take it slow. He was fifty years old, he knew how to spend time pleasuring a woman and make it last.

 

******

 

          Half an hour later Molly was going insane, driven to madness with sustained pleasure. Greg had been kissing her and massaging her all over, until her skin was so sensitized that she thought she might come just from the brush of his hands on her nipples. She hadn’t ever had a man who spent so much time just _touching_ her, without trying to move directly into sex.

          At the moment, he was exploring her belly button, which tickled slightly, and was far more erotic than she would have suspected. Molly had chucked self-consciousness out the window about twenty minutes past, and she was no longer worried about the fact that her thighs and belly weren’t toned, that her hipbones were too sharp, her knees too knobby and her breasts too small. Clearly Greg didn’t think so; she kneaded his shoulders as he moved lower, licking her belly and nibbling the thin, sensitive skin over her hips and sides. Until today, Molly had gone her whole life without knowing that she liked to be lightly bitten.

          His silver hair gleamed like faery gilt as he worked his way down between her thighs; sliding his arms under her legs, he gripped her hips and lowered his head, nuzzling her labia with his nose. _Is he smelling me?_ Molly wondered, a bit embarrassed but still turned on. He pushed her legs farther apart with his shoulders, opening her to him, and burrowed his face into her pussy. His nose bumped her clit as he tongued a stripe up the length of her lips, and then he sucked her into his mouth and proceeded to eat her out in a phenomenal fashion.

          “Gregory,” Molly drew his name out on a moan, feeling strangled, on fire, out of control, “Oh, my _Gawd_ , that’s amaaaaazing!”

          He looked up from between her thighs, mouth wet, “I like how you say my name…say it again.”

          Molly smiled seductively, sank her fingers into his silky hair and made a fist; he moaned approvingly and pressed into her touch like Toby did when he wanted to be petted. She raised her head and shoulders from the pillows and leaned toward him, pulling his hair just a bit and dragging a ragged _oh yeah_ from his lips as she met his eyes, “Make me.”

          Clearly the man responded well to a challenge, because he _dove_ face first into her cunt and had her coming within minutes. Before the last waves of her orgasm had pulled away, he had slid one, two, oh God, three fingers inside her and was fucking her as he sucked on her clit like it was a sweet he couldn’t get enough of. “Greg,” she choked out, “Ah, God, Greg—yes, fuuuuuck, yes!” Words were failing her and all she could do was cry his name and beg him _oh fuck yes, yes fuck!_

Pulling up for air, he panted, “What, baby? Tell me, I want to hear your words.”

          “Fuck me, oh oh, fuck me harder! Harder,” she growled, and he pounded into her with his fingers, twisting his wrist, deepening his stroke, and flicked his tongue repeatedly over her pulsing clit until she dragged a pillow over her face and screamed through an orgasm that felt as if it were ripping her in two. Molly thought she might have flickered in and out of consciousness for just a moment or two, and when she was next aware of her surroundings, felt as if she were floating. The most amazing feeling of lassitude tingled in her limbs, and she thought she hadn’t experienced such an intense, pleasurable and happy peace of mind and body since she was a brash twenty year old trying Ecstasy for the first time.

          “Molly, darlin’ that was fucking hot,” Greg praised her, as he crawled up the bed and lay next to her, caressing her body in long strokes, as if she were a winded race horse that needed to cool down. “Damn but you’re responsive.”

          “That’s all on you,” she croaked, and cleared her throat, trying to regain her normal pitch. She’d panted, moaned and screamed so much her throat was dry. “No one has ever—“ she broke off and pulled him in for a kiss, excited to smell herself on his face, “ever,” she continued, petting his hair, his cheek, his corded neck, “made me come like that.”

          “Now that is a damn shame,” Greg shook his head, “Clearly it’s up to me to make up for years of selfish lovers.”

          “Well you made an excellent beginning,” She beamed at him and skimmed her hand down his side, raising a fine layer of gooseflesh, “Are you, um…? Ah, I see you are.” She grinned and wrapped her fingers around his erection; she had been dimly aware, as he pleasured her, that he had rutted against the mattress, and she wondered if he were turned on and seeking relief, or trying to maintain a hard on. No problems with this erection.

          “Your turn,” she whispered, pushing at his shoulder to roll him on his back and while he went willingly, he voiced a pro forma denial; but she was already kneeling between his legs, leaning over and fanning her hot breath over his eager flesh.

          “Really you don’t have to,” Greg protested, but didn’t stop her when she skimmed a fingertip up the vein on the underside of his shaft, nor when she licked his glans. A groan rumbled his chest, and he stroked her hair, which was fanned over his thighs. “Honestly, Molly—I’m fifty, sweetheart, if you get me off now it could be a while before I’m hard again.”

          “Mmm,” she hummed, wrapping her lips around the head and fisting the shaft, “Can I play for just a little while?”

          “Hell, who am I to stop you?” Greg bunched up the pillows behind him and folded his arms behind his head, giving him a better view of her kneeling between his legs. He grinned at her, “I’m nothing if not accommodating.”

          “That’s what I like best about you, your easy going nature,” Molly complimented, and palmed his balls, rolling them slightly in her hand as she took him in her mouth. He approved, if his gasp was anything to go on; so she licked her way down and kissed and sucked on his scrotum. An involuntary flex of his hips when her fingers brushed his taint made her smile around his dick, and she rubbed a little more firmly, circling her fingers as she bobbed her head. A softly spoken expletive told her he approved, but she chanced to look at him and see arousal warring with a touch of embarrassment.

          “It’s alright if it feels good,” she informed him matter-of-factly, “it’s meant to. Even straight men like a little arse play.”

          He flushed, “I know…I’m just not used to…ah!”

          “If you have a little lube,” Molly suggested primly, “I could slide my finger up your—“

          “I wouldn’t last a minute,” he answered, “Not as turned on as I am. In fact, if you keep that up much longer I’ll be done for.”       

          _Toys_ , Molly thought, _lube, a vibrator, maybe a feather?_ Oh yes, she could have fun with Greg.

          “Condoms? I’ve got an IUD, but—“

          He lunged and scrabbled in the bedside table and pulled out a box. “Ribbed for her pleasure,” she read, “My, my how thoughtful of you.”

          “I aim to please.”

          “I hope your aim is good, because I don’t think it will take me long either,” Molly informed him with pink cheeks as she rolled the condom down his shaft. “I’m so wet you might slide right out of me,” she teased, mounting him and holding his cock at her entrance. “Is it alright if I’m on top? I get off easier this way.”

          “Any way you want it, but we’re going to test how hard it is to get you off in every position,” he promised, sliding his hands up her legs and gripping her hips. “Fuck—ah, Molly, pet, you feel so fucking perfect, Jesus. Goddamn you’re tight, and so hot.”

          She moved incrementally, sliding down until he was fully seated inside her, her inner muscles quivering and stretching around his broad length. Her eyes rolled back a little when she started moving, and when his hips surged up and he rolled under her, she whimpered. Shifting, she planted her knees on either side of his thighs instead of his hips, and leaned forward, propping herself up with her hands on his solid chest, giving his pecs an appreciative squeeze. The changed angle increased the pressure against her clit and while his thrusts didn’t reach as deeply, the angle hit all the right places for her.

           They moved slowly at first, almost fighting one another until suddenly they found their rhythm and an involuntary _oh, oh, oh_ popped out of her mouth. Grinding down a little, she felt a ripple of pleasure pinging in her clit as her orgasm began and rocked more frantically against him, arms braced straight, head dropping between her shoulders as she rubbed her clit against his pubic bone and her orgasm exploded like rockets were attached to her nerve endings.

          Greg lunged up, captured her mouth with his and flipped them and fucked her into the mattress as she came, snagging her second orgasm on her first and riding her well on her way toward the third. He was growling expletives and dirty words, a string of nonsense as his own release approached and he tried to stave it off until she came. She must have seen the struggle in his face because she brought her legs up, dug her heels into his arse cheeks, and gripped his shoulders, “Fuck me, Greg and come now, _now_ , I want to come with you.”

          He gave into her coaxing and let it roll over him as he surged in and out of her, felt his orgasm hit him like a freight train and then incredibly he thought she might have achieved the impossible and triggered a double orgasm for him when her inner walls flexed and fluttered around his dick as she came, clawing at his back. They rode it out together, as he slowly thrust in ever gentler parries, and she clenched around him, extending the shudders that wracked his body. At last they cried uncle and collapsed onto the bed, their sweaty flesh sticking together as he fell half onto her and half onto the mattress.

          A long time later he managed to roll off of her and drag her into a loose hug. “Dear heart, I think you may have killed me.”

          “Me?” Molly snorted, muffled in his chest, “I came so hard all the neighbors should need cigarettes!”

          He shook with laughter, and she raised her head, giggling happily. Greg kissed her deeply and then nuzzled her cheek, “You are stupendous, Molly Hooper, and you make me so happy.”

          She blinked back tears, and framed his face in her small hands, “You’re the amazing one, Greg, and I couldn’t be happier.”

          He wrapped her in his arms and they drifted off to sleep, in a mutual afterglow.

         

         

         

         

         


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More sexy times; muuuuuuuch more sexy. And a wee bit of silly fluff and some angst, but mostly sexiness and fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hot-cha-cha!

            They discovered it by accident, Greg and Molly. Really, it was just as much a surprise to him as it was to her.

            Hours after they made love for the first time, after drowsy talking and a raid of the kitchen for a much delayed snack/dinner eaten naked and standing in the cold glow of the refrigerator light, sometime after midnight, they had fallen asleep. Toward dawn Greg woke to pee and despite his caution he returned to bed to find Molly awake; in her turn she used the loo and slipped into bed, drawing a yelp from him when her cold hands touched him. They laughed and he captured her hands against the warmth of his belly and naturally they started kissing; soon her warm hands were sliding over his skin as if she couldn’t stop touching him (he understood the feeling, he couldn’t get enough of her either) and when she grazed his half erect penis with her hand, the temperature in the room rose.

            As dawn light stole in around the drawn curtains, and the sound of the waking city increased slowly in volume, Molly lightly pinned his shoulders to the bed and asked him with her eyes for permission to explore, to take charge. Happily, Greg let her take her time, starting at his feet; she massaged his arch, the ball of his foot, with hands which were surprisingly strong despite their small size. He hummed in approval and then sucked in a startled breath when she lightly bit his big toe, and followed it with a soothing swipe of her tongue. It was unusual, unexpected but not unwelcome. What a strange little bundle of comfort and surprises his Molly was.

            She combed her fingers through the hair on his legs, pulled slightly, a sensation he enjoyed, and he knew she had recognized the night before that he enjoyed that mild discomfort. She didn’t crouch or lay between his legs, instead kneeling on the mattress, her legs on either side of his right leg, as she moved up the bed. Smoothing her hands along his muscles, massaging at first lightly and then with more pressure, kneading and exploring; delineating the edges of his bones with her fingers. He was fully hard now, and resisted the desire to reach for her, or stroke himself. This was Molly’s time. Instead he folded his arms behind his head and reveled in her exploration.

            Instead of reaching for his cock, she slid her hands under him and grasped his buttocks, purring praise for their “delicious firmness” and tickling him with a run of her fingertip down the crevice of his cheeks. His cock jumped and she smiled, repeating her actions; Greg fought a blush. Nothing wrong with liking that, but he had never admitted his interest to a partner before; not even silently, as he was now. Molly continued to tease him, and without consciously realizing it, he turned slightly onto his side, so her left hand could continue the torment more easily. Her right hand wormed its way awkwardly out from under his hip and he started to apologize, but speaking seemed intrusive, so he took it and pressed a kiss on the back, then let her withdraw it slowly from his grasp.

            She didn’t move immediately to touch his cock and part of him wanted to howl with longing, while the other part was getting seriously fucking turned on by the delay. Clenching his hands into fists behind his head, Greg tugged on his own hair, which both relieved some of the tension and ratcheted it up further. Molly wasn’t talking, aside from a few murmured compliments, and now she was maddeningly brushing her fingers over his buttocks and leaning on one arm, studying his penis in a way that should have felt off-putting and clinical, but was actually pretty arousing.

            Greg studied it too; average, he would say, as far as length, but he knew from casual glimpses, and from things past lovers had said, that he had more girth than most guys. His dick was circumcised, which was unusual in British men his age, and it had startled more than one woman. It was clean, strong, functioned as it ought (although not as frequently after sex, nowadays, as he might like) and it was normally flesh colored with a pink head. Now, however, the flush of blood to his genitals had raised the color of the glans to a dark purple-pink, the shaft a pinkish red, and it curved slightly toward his belly. Before he could tell Molly her scrutiny was making him slightly self-conscious, she breathed something that sounded like “spectacular” and _smelled him_.

            Her nose barely brushed him in passing, but he could feel her exhalations on his skin, sense her nearness, as she painstakingly inhaled his scent and then pulled back and licked the crease between his thigh and his groin. It coaxed a groan from him, and he saw her smile as she started a series of tiny kisses down the crease, then felt her tongue dart out to lick his balls. Greg wanted to come, wanted to curse, wanted to beg her to have mercy already. _I ought to get a commendation for patience_ , he thought desperately.

            Unprepared, he sucked in air when she opened her mouth and dandled one of his testicles in her mouth; her mouth was soft and wet and hot and the sensation was delicately arousing and not a little alarming. Molly released him with a soft slurp and smacked her lips, giving him a naughty smile when he met her eyes; still not speaking, she continued to tease his arse while she explored his left testicle, which hung lower when he was relaxed. Not that he was relaxed now, oh no, he was rock hard, iron hard, harder than steel, harder than fucking titanium, and Jesus help him he was scared to let her go on and loathe to stop her.

            Greg became aware (and just how in the hell was he only noticing this _now_?) that Molly was straddling his leg, riding his calf, her, oh dear God, dripping wet pussy slicking over his shin. Fuck this, he thought, and she must have felt his tension, sensed he was going to take over, because she put her right hand on his belly and petted him like she might Toby. He huffed out a laugh and told himself to relax. “Good boy,” Molly murmured consolingly, and nuzzled his cock, brushed it with her lips, tongued him lightly. He was afraid that if she took him in her mouth he might come then and there when all he wanted was to be buried balls deep inside her. He managed her name in a strangled warning, but she ignored him and flicked his glans with her tongue, licked the frenulum, licked him again from base to head, then massaged his frenulum with broad, pulsing, stroking motions of her tongue.

            Greg was sweating now, turned on more than he might ever have been in his life, balls drawn tight to his body, his dick engorged, straining, and he needed relief, needed release now. “Goddamnit,” he grunted, sounding more cave man than he felt comfortable with, “Molly, please have pity, I can’t take any more—“

            Shushing him, his lover, that wild, evil, goddamned wonderful temptress, climbed up his body, sat on his chest and leaned over to pluck a condom out of the bedside table. He craned his neck and kissed her belly, the smell of her arousal driving him crazy. Aware that his fingers were probably bruising her hips, he tried to relax his grip but she’d been tormenting him for too long, ages, hours, hell, maybe days, he wasn’t sure at this point how long she’d been tormenting him, and he trembled with the barely restrained urge to plow into her immediately. Settling herself on his thighs, Molly expertly sheathed him in latex and he shuddered at her touch.            

            Gone was his promise to try her out in other positions, he didn’t care how this happened as long as it just got started. Without ceremony—and hazily he hoped she was wet enough and turned on enough that it hadn’t caused her any discomfort—Molly lined him up and sank down on his eagerly bobbing dick. A primitive need fueled him and he thrust upward before he was even all the way inside, and when he felt her clenching around him he locked his fingers around her waist and thrust, but she fought back, trying to pry his hands off. “My way,” she tutted, and how she could be so fucking _calm_ he didn’t know, and guided his hands up above his head, trying to hold his wrists in one hand, but her hands were too small and so he hooked his fingers over the headboard. And God help him if her approving smile wasn’t as much a turn on as the rest of it.

            Clutching his shoulders as if he were a horse about to buck wildly out of control and throw her, Molly pulled her knees in tight on either side of his hips, snugged her calves alongside his thighs and rode him. She was sitting upright, her slight weight bearing down, taking him so deep he felt like he was touching her womb. Gritting his teeth, Greg tried to hold back, he wasn’t a teenager, he had skill, he had stamina, damn it. But Molly felt too good, she had done too thorough a job ramping up his desire and he felt the familiar heat rising in his belly, the tightening of his balls as his orgasm approached. “I’m close,” he managed to tear off the words, and she leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest to give her leverage to move faster, fuck him harder.

            But he was glazed in sweat and her hands slipped and her left hand ended up on his throat and she was pulling back with a curse, apologizing and he felt his body jump in acknowledgment and he pulled her hand back, met her startled eyes and begged her to choke him. Dark brown eyes went nearly black when he spoke, and he incredibly felt her pussy wash him in a fresh wave of her juices, as she complied, still a little too light on pressure, a little tentative, but there—fuck yes, there! Greg pressed back against her hand, felt the air tighten in his lungs, roared like a damned out of control animal and came so hard he saw black spots dance before his eyes. Jetting come so hard he was faintly aware that his balls were spasming, Greg gripped her hips tight and helped her grind down on his still hard flesh, listened to her begging reach a crescendo and savored every last jerk and twitch of her body as she rode it out.

            Spent, she fell against his chest, sweat melding them together, as his softening penis slid out of her. She tightened her passage to hold him in, a whine indicating her desire to keep him inside. A sadness that he wasn’t twenty anymore overtook him; Greg wished he could get erect again almost immediately, fulfill her in a way nature just wasn’t permitting him. When he tried to apologize, she actually bit his nipple and he hollered, “What the hell?!”

            Crossing her arms on his chest, Molly curled on him like a cat and frowned, “After achieving sexual nirvana you dare to apologize?”         

            Running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, Greg voiced his frustration, “I’m not young anymore, I can’t do it again so soon…and I know you need more.”

            “It has nothing to do with age, and you _are_ aware that women’s bodies are different than men’s. Just because I’m still turned on and could come again doesn’t mean you didn’t just get me off and in the most spectacular way, might I add.” Molly’s frown disappeared and she kissed his chin, “You’re the most selfless lover I’ve ever had and I’m not disappointed because you’re not twenty. I’d wager you didn’t know nearly as many ways to please a woman back then, for one thing,” She winked and he hugged her to him.

            “Possibly I was less aware of my partner’s needs in those days,” he admitted, holding her tight, “But no one has ever made me want to make them happy the way I feel about you.”

            Burying her face in his chest, Molly rocked a little and held him tight in her skinny arms. What might have been a tear, or was maybe just sweat, dropped from her face to his chest and words of love hovered on his lips. Biting them back, he held her and stroked the silky skin of her back. When his breathing had eased and Molly had emerged, red faced but smiling, he raised a wicked eyebrow and tapped a finger on his chest. She focused her eyes on it, but was so close her eyes briefly crossed before she pulled back and sat up, “What?”

            “Come here, sit on my chest,” Greg tugged at her arms, and when she didn’t move, he gripped her hips and urged her up his body.

            “What? You want me to sit on your chest?” Bless her confused face; Greg held back a laugh at her surprising naiveté, given her courtesan-like performance of the last hour. “No, my chest is merely a way station, I want you to sit on my face.”

            An actual squawk burst out of her, and she pressed her hands to her hot cheeks, “Gregory!”

            His laugh bounced her up and down, “You say my name like I’m about to be given a demerit. I was hoping for a gold star.” He waggled his eyebrows, “Maybe a kiss from teacher?”

            “You want to—now? I mean, after we’ve been--?”

            “Yes, now, after we’ve had sex. I just wish I could have come inside you instead of the condom, I’d like to taste us, mingled on my tongue while I eat you.”

            Flailing a bit, Molly face-planted on the mattress, and he took the opportunity to remove and tie off the condom. Lifting her hair, he peeked at her face, which she had buried in the sheets, “Why this sudden shyness?”

            “You…I can’t believe you said that!” She turned her face so her left cheek was pressed to the bed and peered at him, “You’re so…”

            “Skilled? Sexy? Amazing in bed?”

            “All of the above,” she asserted, sitting up suddenly and kneeling with her cute little bum on her heels. “I’m not used to hearing, erm, dirty talk. And you make it sound so hot.” She fanned herself exaggeratedly, and he saw the smile she was trying to repress. _Ah, gotcha_ , he thought, but just lay back down and regarded her mildly.

            “Never saw any point in beating about the bush,” he informed her, then cackled a bit as his words caught up to him, “Especially not if I can tell you how tremendously you turn me on, Molly Hooper.”

            “Oh yes?” She gave him a coy glance out of the corner of her eyes, and he pinched her lightly on the thigh, “Oi, stop that, flirt.”

            “Are you going to come plant your sweet wet pussy on my face or not, woman?”

            “Fine,” she huffed in mock annoyance, “if you’re going to insist.” She stood up and wavered to catch her balance on the bed. He put up an obliging hand and steadied her as she stepped over him, a foot planted on either side of his torso, her toes almost in his armpits.

            “Oooh, wait just a tick,” he urged, drinking in the sight of her from this angle. “I can see all the way up your—“

            “Greg!” Her shriek deepened into a yelp when he tugged on her wrist and she folded her knees, lowering herself. With only minimally awkward maneuvering she ended up with her bum on his upper chest, her knees on either side of his head and her feet tucked under his arms. He rubbed his hands over her breasts and pinched her nipples, then dragged his palms down her body to her hips and pulled her towards him. “No thinking now, just relax and let me take care of you.”

            He felt her breathing speed up and noticed the shivers of anticipation in her thighs, the slight quiver of her belly as he drew closer. God, what a high this was, having Molly Hooper in his bed, swaying to the will of his lecherous desires, kneeling over him like a queen about to receive her proper due. The smell of her aroused cunt, the glistening lips so close, pink and engorged, dazzled him, and he took his time sniffing in delight at her lips. She gripped the headboard and scooted a little closer, and he hid a smile in her inner thigh as he kissed her. Someone was more eager than they wanted to let on…

            One hand on the small of her back, one hand brushing lightly over her mound, Greg breathed her in, nuzzled her soft skin, scraped his stubbled chin delicately against her sensitive flesh and felt the shudder that shook her. Her thighs were slick with juices, and just thinking about how hot the sex had been raised his blood pressure; Greg ran his tongue up toward her clit, thrusting between her lips to get at the sweet, juicy core of her. Stopping short of her hardened bud of flesh, he set about tormenting her. Everything he had went into it; lips, tongue, teeth, nose, chin. He held her lips spread with his thumb and forefinger and splayed the other hand low on her back and thinking of her earlier antics, he dropped that hand lower, squeezed her arse cheek, and grazed the cleft with his fingers. Ah, yes, there it was, a shift in her breathing, a grind on his face; helpful, that.

            Without touching her clit or sliding a finger inside her bum, he was working her into a frenzy; just brushing passes of his finger over her sensitive back door, swipes of his tongue in her sweet cave. A couple of times he felt a bit breathless, and when her mounting excitement caused her to press his head down harder into the pillow and insistently rub against his face, he had a happy vision of dying, drowning in her pussy. What a way to go, he thought with foggy delight.

            His face was wet, all he could smell was her; all he could hear (through the thighs pressed against his ears) was the increasing sound of Molly’s moans and cries. Grabbing her arse cheeks in his hands he spread them and thrust deeper into her cunt with his tongue; gone was the lingering taste of the latex, now all he could taste was Molly. She had given up any semblance of shyness or control and was rolling her hips, smashing his face, his nose, and he tilted his chin back to get a quick breath of air then manfully waded in to propel her towards—holy shit, the yelling was sure to wake the neighbors, assuming any of them were still asleep after all the racket they’d been making.

            When her convulsing had finally stopped, she just sort of slumped bonelessly on top of him, listing to the right, the headboard digging into her breasts and her arms tangled around his head. _Need some air_ , Greg thought, and lifted her up and tried to slide out from under his limp lover. The trouble came when she roused and tried to assist, but only managed to clock him in the face with her knee. “Ow!”

            “Oh, my God, Greg, I’m so sorry!” Molly fell onto the bed and tried to pry his hand away from where he had clapped it to his right eye. “I’m sorry! Did it hurt? Of course it must have hurt…oh God.”

            Laughter shook the bed and he pulled his hand away, checked his nose for blood and gave her a saucy grin. “That’s the thanks I get for drowning in your juicy cunt, miss? You almost smothered me at the end.”

            Garbled phrases emerged, but most of it was lost in the blanket she had pulled over her face. “I didn’t say I minded.” Greg tugged at the blanket. “Going to be _veeeeery_ interesting explaining this shiner to the boys at the Yard. My story might depend a good deal on whether or not I get a kiss on my wound.”

            She popped up faster than a jack-in-the-box and pressed an earnest kiss to his eyelid, his cheek, his nose and then his mouth. “I am sorry,” she muttered a long while later, pressing her head into the crook of his neck.

            “An accident, and worth it,” He patted her bum, “My face is going to smell like you all day.”

            “We should put the sheets in the wash,” Molly said, trying to sound brisk when she sat up and saw the time.

            “I have a counter offer: instead, we snuggle for a bit more, shower—together—then I make us breakfast and we leave the bed smelling like a whorehouse on Saturday night?”

            “Charming,” she giggled.

            “I meant no disrespect to whorehouses nor to you. I like the idea of coming home and smelling you on my sheets.” Greg bit back the emotional words that hovered on his lips; the time might not ever come to tell her how he felt, but it certainly wasn’t now, on a Thursday morning, when they both had to work in a few hours. “So,” he joked, “apparently I like to be choked and have my arse played with, that’s new.”

 

******

 

            It would be, Molly thought an hour later, ridiculously easy to get used to this; sleeping in Greg’s arms, waking up to mind-blowing sex, a frisky shower, breakfast and easy conversation. They shared the newspaper, and a pot of tea, and then he went to get dressed while she put on her clothes from the day before and hunted around for her knickers. “Greg!”

            “Yeah?”

            “Have you seen my knickers?”

            “You mean the ones with the pink lacy bits and the little cupcakes on them?”

            “Yes.”

            His voice came out of the bathroom before he did, and she could _hear_ his shit-eating grin, “Nope, haven’t seen them.”

            “Greg! I have to go, _now_ , there’s a taxi waiting, and I still have to go home and get ready for work!”

            Innocent smile notwithstanding, she didn’t trust him. “You should go, don’t want to be late.”

            “I’m not riding in a cab sans knickers!”

            “Better than the Tube,” he snickered and she thought about throttling him, but there wasn’t the time.

            “You’re a terrible pervert, I never knew it until now,” she fumed, stepping into her sandals and looking around in case she had forgotten anything, _besides_ her knickers.

            “The Tube, get it?” He waggled his eyebrows comically, “ _riding_ the Tube? The tube…” he drew it out and she bit back a laugh.

            “You’re an idiot. Are all men secretly thirteen inside?”

            “Yes.”

            He tried to draw her into his arms but she gave him a quick kiss then pushed him away, “Seriously have to go now. I’ll be late.”

            “Text me later?”

            “Yes, yes!” She waved distractedly and ran out the door, trying to ignore how…breezy…she felt without anything under her skirt.

            A few minutes later she heard her phone ding and pulled it out, only for a cackle to burst out, quickly muffled when the driver caught her eyes in the rearview mirror.

            Greg had sent her a picture of her knickers, with a pair of shears being brandished at them. MY PLACE 9PM OR THE KNICKERS GET IT.

           

******

 

            It was early September, late afternoon, just before the reluctant sun began to disappear, and Molly and Greg were in Angelo’s, drinking wine and trying to decide what to eat. It had rained earlier in the day, but was just a bit drippy and moist now. The two of them had enjoyed a day off together; lazy morning in bed, late breakfast, the Aquarium, then a snack and a cocktail at a pretty swanky hotel, followed by the long-deferred ride on the Eye. They had been dating for three months and although Molly hadn’t made a big deal out of it, hadn’t even mentioned it, she thought that Greg was aware and had tried to make the day special.

            He’d bucked for someplace a little fancier than Angelo’s but she didn’t feel like going back to change, and the food was good here, the atmosphere relaxed and comfortable. Angelo had lit a candle and winked at them, then brought over a bottle of red on the house. Molly wasn’t sure why she blushed; maybe because his look said he knew they were having sex later, maybe because the candle indicated romance…but Greg hadn’t ever said he loved her. Although, to be fair, she hadn’t said it either.

            _Three month anniversary_ , Molly thought nervously, _maybe it’s time to say it_. _I_ know _he cares about me_. The man was ridiculously sweet and loving, he made her feel so cherished and special and it was daily harder not to let the words spill out. But…she couldn’t help but wonder why he had never said it. It was possible this was just a fling for him, maybe she was so used to dating bastards that she was reading more into it than was there. This might just be how decent blokes acted in casual relationships.

            At the moment, he was reading the menu while absently rubbing her ankle. They had done a fair bit of walking, and Molly had foolishly worn rather tall wedge-heeled sandals. Unused to anything besides flats, sandals or trainers, her feet and ankles were protesting. Greg had patted his lap and she put her feet up, feeling a bit self-conscious, even though the restaurant was almost empty.

            “I can’t decide between the veal parmesan and the chicken marsala,” Greg said, putting down his menu. “What are you having?”

            “Mm, those both sound good. How about we order those and share?”

            “Excellent choice, Ms. Hooper,” he squeezed her foot and her heart thumped in response. It wasn’t just sex, everything about this man made her happy; his sense of humor, his sense of honor, the way he thought of her before himself. She could be herself with him and he loved it; they were spending increasing time at one another’s places, and she was nearly as comfortable there as she was at her own.

            The bell over the door jingled and a dark form swooped up to their table; they both looked up to see Sherlock hovering over them, John slouching up behind him, Rosie on his arm.

            “Hello,” Molly greeted the trio, smiling at her god-daughter, “Rosie, my sweet! I haven’t come to visit in a shockingly long time, look how much bigger you’ve gotten.”

            “She’d love to see you—“ John was cut off by Sherlock, who pulled out a chair and prepared to drop into it, “Mind if we join you?”

            “Of course not—“

            Molly was politely over-ridden by Greg, who smiled but sounded firm, “Actually, yeah, we do. It’s our anniversary, so we kind of want to be alone.”

            Sherlock, narrow arse hovering over the chair, froze, looked between them and blinked several times. “Oh…”

            John put a firm hand on his upper arm and hauled him up, “C’mon, you pillock, leave the two of them alone.” He smiled at them, “Greg, Molly, congratulations. Have a lovely dinner.”

            “Thank you,” Molly said faintly.

            “Problem?” She was surprised to hear tension in Greg’s voice, usually he was so laid back, so easy going. Glancing at him uncertainly, she bit her lip, “What?”

            “Do you have a problem with me telling them we wanted some privacy?” He looked…combative. “Or would you rather spend the evening with Sherlock?”

            Feeling like she had suddenly been plunged into a dark corridor and were unsure of whether solid floor or a flight of stairs faced her, Molly picked her words with care, “I’d much rather be with you. Why would you think otherwise?”

            “You started to invite them to join us,” Greg looked away, then looked back, and his face was suddenly so weary that she felt tears prick her eyes. “I thought—this is our anniversary.” He didn’t finish the sentence.

            “I was just being polite.” Molly chewed her lip, unsure what the right thing to say was, how to take that awful look off his face. “They’re our friends I didn’t think you would mind. And honestly, Greg,” her voice went small, “I-I wasn’t sure you knew it was three months since we started—since we started seeing one another.”

            He seemed genuinely perplexed, “Molly, how could I not know? Christ, the last three months have been—you make me so happy, I count every day as a blessing.” He looked embarrassed.

            “I’m sorry if I made you feel… Greg, you _must_ know how deliriously happy I am!” She caught his hand, pressed it between both of hers, “I just wasn’t sure what this _was_. You never said,” she hurried on, when he shot her a lightening glance, “I didn’t know if we were dating or if this was just…a fling.”

            His fingers dug into hers, “It was never just a fling for me. God, I thought you must know—“ He sounded slightly choked up and Molly wanted to laugh and cry and her face felt so hot she was sure everyone must be looking at them.

            “It was never just a fling for me either,” her voice, quiet and shaky, dropped into the silence left by his unfinished sentence, and he sucked in a breath.

            “We can eat later,” he jerked out his wallet, threw money on the table, “Home. Now. I’m not having this conversation at Angelo’s.”

            In the taxi he held her to his side with a shaking arm, and Molly felt that tremulous, slightly hysterical feeling bubble up in her again. Happiness was causing a fine tremor to radiate throughout her body, and when Greg gripped her hand in his and pressed a hard kiss to her temple, she knew how he felt. _Get us home, get us home, get us home_ , she thought impatiently.

            Finally they were outside her flat, which was closer to Angelo’s, and then they were inside and Greg was gripping her face in his hands, his dark eyes searching hers and she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe, _oh God, oh God_ , happiness was swamping her.

            “Molly…I don’t know what you think is going on here—what you think I’ve been doing all these months…but this isn’t a fling or a game or—Christ…Molly, I love you.”

            A sob barked out of her, and she flung herself into his arms, crying and trying to assure him that she loved him. Honestly, she wasn’t sure he understood her words, but if the tight embrace that held her to him was any indication, he understood her intent.

            When she could suck in a breath and gulp back tears, Molly pushed back, wiped her face fiercely with her palms and looked up into his eyes, gave her hands a hasty wipe on her jeans, and put her hands on his face. Caressing his cheeks with her thumbs, she smiled at him, “I told you from the first night, Greg, I’ve had feelings for you for years. If I wasn’t in love with you then, the last few months have certainly made it clear to me how I feel about you. You are the most sweet, tender, sexy, fantastic man on earth and I am crazy about you.” Pulling him down, she stopped before their lips touched, whispered, “I love you.”


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the best of couples have their tiffs...but just why did Greg come back from Mexico so mad? Could Molly still be carrying a torch for Sherlock?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly was going to work on my other stories before I posted another chapter here, but I couldn't resist.  
> Also, a big thank you to katiessr and woaf for their kind compliments, continued enthusiasm, and excellent feedback. I really appreciate everyone who reads, kudos, and comments my posts, thank you all.  
> Additionally, I've no idea if "putting a little English on it" means the same thing in the UK as it does in the US...here it's to do with using finesse on a shot in billiards.

          Slinging his bag in the boot, Greg left it open and jerked open the rear passenger side door of the taxi and was inside before Molly had even reached the vehicle. Grumbling to herself, she put her train case and weekender in the boot, slammed it closed with a bit more force than necessary, and stalked around the car to jerk open the rear driver’s side door and slide in. Greg was acting like an enormous prat and it had been very, very tempting to take a separate taxi back to her flat.

          However, she was not only an adult who couldn’t run away from her problems, but also, Anna had been watching Toby at Greg’s flat, and she could hardly go home without him. They rode in silence, neither one willing to break it; the flight had been a nightmare on top of everything else, but one saving grace had been that it was crowded and they couldn’t find seats together. The flight had provided a much needed buffer between Mexico and London. Twelve miserable hours squashed in between a new mother with a squalling infant who smelled of poo and formula, and an Indian-American man who reeked strongly of beer and curry had cemented a crushing headache between her eyes and left her with a sour stomach.

          It would have been worse to be seated next to Greg, who was so furious he couldn’t even seem to bring himself to talk to her; and this was _Greg_ , who was so talkative he made friends nearly everywhere he went. The man who took setbacks with stride, who still maintained a friendly relationship with his ex-wife and who put up with Sherlock’s antics for going on ten years now. Maybe they could have found an easier truce if forced to sit together, but Molly doubted it. She had no desire to talk about this in public, much less in the confines of a jet.

          Besides, he was in the wrong and he could bloody well start the discussion with an apology. Damned if she would be her usual peacekeeping self and hold out an olive branch.

          Of course traffic was terrible, and the ride from Heathrow to Greg’s flat took ages longer than it normally should. Molly occupied herself with avoiding looking at her boyfriend and texting everyone to let them know they were back. Maybe they could shelve what was obviously going to be a long and drawn out argument until another day? All she wanted was a long bath accompanied by a huge glass of wine, then bed. _Worst holiday ever_.

          Every light in the flat appeared to be on when the taxi pulled up to the kerb; Molly mentally fled down the street. Oh, if only she had texted Anna and warned her not to be home when they arrived! But the idea of a buffer between them had sounded too good; she was a terrible coward. _Maybe it won’t be so bad_ , she thought hopefully, _maybe Greg will realize we’re both too tired to start this now_.

          Greg fumbled to get the key in the lock, as rain started falling, and Molly shifted behind him, dreading the next bit. Anna must have heard them at the door, because before her father could unlock it she opened the door wide and beamed at them, “Dad! Molly, hi! Oh gosh, come inside!” She picked up Toby, who was trying to greet them by winding himself among their feet. She stepped back as they came inside, looking angelically pretty in a man’s white button down over leggings, with her silky strawberry blond hair in a loose fishtail braid.

          “Hey, Anna,” Molly smiled tightly, set her bags down and hugged her boyfriend’s daughter, whispered softly in her ear, “Tread lightly,” and took Toby. “Oh my goodness I missed you!” She touched her nose to his and he sniffed delicately at her face. Anna laughed, “He was a love, but I think he missed you too, he was always wanting in my lap when I was home.” Nothing in her manner betrayed that she had heard Molly, that she was at all worried.

          “You were great to watch him, thank you again Anna. I hate to put him in the kennel, especially for so long.” Molly loosened her hold on Toby, who was protesting, and he leapt lightly from her arms and followed Greg into the bedroom. Molly watched him go with anxious eyes, and shot a look at Anna, who returned it imperturbably. No time to say anything, Greg was coming back down the short hallway. “Somewhere in my bags I have a gift for you. Once I unpack…I’m all at sixes and sevens.” Molly laughed nervously, “I guess I should get Toby and go home.”

          “You must be tired, why don’t you just stay the night?”

          But it was Anna who spoke, not Greg, and Molly cleared her throat; before she could answer, however, Greg came out of the kitchen and handed her a glass of water, “Kettle’s on,” he said, and gave her a soft look that meant he was aware he’d been a giant arse the last two days, and kissed her forehead, “Anna’s right, we’re both exhausted. Stay the night.”

          “Alright,” Molly said weakly, and sipped her water. “I’ve just got to use the loo.” She escaped thankfully; thank God Greg had dropped his silent act, but she was still worried about the confrontation still to come. The idea of texting Sherlock and warning him to leave the country occurred to her, but then she decided she was on Greg’s side and Sherlock could watch his own back. She looked at her stressed face in the mirror, thought about washing it, decided a shower sounded sublime and stuck her head out, “Anyone need in here? I’m going to have a shower.”

          A too-hot shower helped relax her and leave her feeling better for being clean; she hated planes, she always arrived feeling germy and rumpled. Toweling off, she saw blood and sighed. Damn, her cycle had started; she went to look under the sink for a box of tampons only to stop when she saw that Greg had left a clean nightie, knickers and a tampon on the counter. Tears prickled her lids; even after their argument he remembered that her period was due and he was taking care of her. _Why am I risking this for Sherlock?_

          “I ordered Chinese,” Greg said when he heard her shuffling down the hall, in her fuzzy slippers. It was chilly after Mexico, and she had on her flannel dressing gown over her nightshirt printed with rubber ducks. _When did I stop trying to seduce him?_ The sex was still wonderful, and Molly was aware that she didn’t have to dress in sexy lingerie to keep his interest, but they had only been dating for five months, it seemed a bit sad to her that she was wearing the clothes she normally wore at home when she had her period or the flu.

          “Hope that’s okay,” he went on, “There wasn’t much in the house, Anna must have eaten out the whole time we were gone.”

          “That’s fine,” Molly said, “I hope you didn’t get anything too spicy, I’m knackered and I don’t want to get reflux if I go to bed right after dinner.”

          “Broccoli chicken and eggrolls,” Greg turned to look at her, “Anna left, she had plans. It’s just the two of us.”

          Molly’s stomach flipped, but she curled up on the couch and hugged a pillow to her, “You should have a shower before the food arrives you’ll feel better.” It wasn’t her imagination that he hesitated, but Greg nodded and went to walk past; she caught his arm and tugged him down, “Thank you for taking care of me,” she whispered, and kissed him lightly. His smile was genuine but he just brushed a hand over her hair and headed for the bathroom.

          It wasn’t until dinner was over and they were cleaning up after themselves that Greg brought up the subject which had been hanging over them.

          “Twelve hours on a plane gave me time to think, and I just want to start off by saying I’m sorry I lost my temper. I know I said some ugly things to you.” He dried the cutlery and put it in the drawer, then turned to her as she wrung out the sponge. “I know Sherlock used to treat your flat as a bolt hole, and I know—“ he faltered, “I know he used to use your bedroom.” He looked away, looked back, “I told myself it wasn’t any of my business—and Molly, it wasn’t. But if it’s still going on, if he’s still sleeping w—sleeping there, I deserve to know…what’s going on.”  
          Dropping the sponge from shaking hands, Molly wished like hell she weren’t such a pushover. “He hasn’t stayed the night since before Sherrinford. And even when he did—we never shared a room.” She met his eyes, “We never had sex, Greg, we never came close—not once. We tried to kiss the one time, and it was ridiculous.” She smiled a little, deriding herself, “I know I was hung up on Sherlock for years, but he really is _just my friend_ now. You know I love you.” Biting her lip, she went on, “I thought you knew me well enough, trusted me enough to know I wouldn’t be involved with him or anyone when I’m with you.”

          His arms were crossed, whether it was defensively or for comfort, she didn’t know. “I know what kind of woman you are, Molly.” He dropped his standoffish stance, took her hand in one of his own, “I know you’re loyal and kind and giving and I know how much you loved Sherlock—no, let me finish—and that you’d do anything for him. I guess…hell, I guess I let my history with Karen cloud my thoughts. I read those texts and Jesus, my heart felt like it was crushed. I could stand to lose Karen, but I can’t lose you.”

          Molly stepped into his arms and pressed her face to his chest, “Those texts were what I told you they were…Sherlock being himself. You know he has zero sense of boundaries, and I guess he assumed that since I was out of town my flat was available for him to use. I didn’t realize…you’re so strong and steady and level-headed, Greg, I guess I didn’t even consider that you might have trouble trusting someone after Karen.”

          He dipped his head and touched his forehead to her damp hair, “You’re always telling me I’m perfect Molly, but that’s a lot of weight to put on a man. I’m anything but, and infidelity is a trigger for me, I guess. Intellectually I know you aren’t like that, but emotionally I have a lot of baggage.”

          She wound her arms around his middle and snuggled closer, raising her face so she could look him in the eyes, “I’ll keep that in mind, and I’ll try not to expect perfection of you. Are we okay? Are you going to murder Sherlock?”

          A brief laugh flexed his chest under her chin, but he just shook his head, looking tired, “No, he’s too useful, the bastard.” Greg dropped a light kiss on her nose, and as she stepped back he caught her shoulders in his, voice deepening, “But if he ever tries to climb into bed with you…well, there’s already a grave with his name on it.”

         

******

 

          Dinner parties were not exactly Greg’s forte; he certainly hadn’t grown up in a household where dinner parties were hosted, nor had it been something he and Karen ever did. But Molly had given in to her girlfriend’s complaints that she was ignoring them in favor of Greg and decided that the two of them should have her best mates over for a dinner, and she further got the idea into her head that they should make it a proper dinner party and invite two men. Two single men. Two single, clueless men who didn’t know what was in store for them.

          “I thought this was just me spending time with Sheila and Meena, and you getting them off your case for “ignoring” them?” Greg inquired in exasperation, the third time Molly brought it up. He was trying to get ready for work and she was following him around yapping about who he should invite. He was delayed enough, trying to get ready the same time as her in her washroom which was cluttered with her things. There was hardly room for his shave kit.  She had the bloody day off, why couldn’t she wait until he was done? “I didn’t know we were trying to trap a couple of bachelors.” Whoops, mistake, that. He could tell as soon as the words left his mouth.

          “Pardon?” Molly only got that snooty, posh tone to her voice when he had offended her.

          Giving her his best flirtatious smile, Greg popped his collar and put on a tie, “You know what I mean. I just thought this was something casual. Can’t you invite a couple fellas for them? All my friends are too old.”

          Molly scoffed, “The only single men I know that those two don’t are Sherlock and John.”

          “John…”

          “No. It’s too soon after Mary, he hasn’t even been on a date yet.”

          “It’ll be good for him,” Greg suggested hopefully, “Ease him into things.”

          “If we invite John, Sherlock will almost certainly crash the party.”

          “Bugger that.”

          “Thought so.”

 

******

 

          An indignant, “Greg!” from the loo alerted him that he was in trouble.

          “Yes, sweetheart?”

          “You left the toilet paper empty. Again.” There was a dangerous edge to Molly’s voice, and he winced and called an apology. He only used it half as much as she did, so really, shouldn’t he be cut a little slack if he occasionally forgot? Especially in his own sodding house?

          “Never mind that! Come fetch me some.”

          Greg opened the door to find his tiny girlfriend perched primly on the toilet, looking irate. “I forgot,” he excused, as he hunted through the mess under his sink until he found a roll of loo paper. “Here you are.”

          She scowled at him, “Honestly, how hard is it to refill when you use the last of it?”

          “Mm,” he said in a non-committal tone, and escaped.

 

******

 

          “The dinner party is less than two weeks away, Greg, we need to invite someone before everyone has plans.” Molly sat up in bed next to him, briskly filing her nails. He hated that rasping sound, and the thought of dead particles of fingernails in bed with them. “Now think.”

          “How can I, with you sawing away at your nails over there?”

          Molly lowered her emory board and stared at him blankly, “What?”

          Greg pinched the bridge of his nose, “Sorry, that sounded a little rude. I, uh, would you mind not doing that in bed? I can’t stand that sound.”

          She looked a bit bewildered, “You should have said something sooner, Greg. Consider it done.” She carefully placed the file on the bedside table, and he wondered if she were mad. But if she was, she hid it well, moving on to the next step of her nighttime ritual, putting lotion on her hands, arms and upper chest. Greg loved this bit. Not only did it smell wonderful, but she always gave him a doe eyed look over her shoulder and asked him to rub some on her back. They usually ended up fooling around.

          “So, who shall we invite?”

          He groaned, and lay down, flopping an arm over his eyes, “Jesus, why do we have to invite anyone?”

          “Greg,” Molly drew his name out as if she were at the end of her patience. He’d been married too long, he knew what that warning tone meant. He uncovered his eyes and looked at her. Right then, they were talking about this now.

          “How about Anderson?”

          Molly wrinkled her nose, “I don’t know…does he still have that scruffy beard?”

          Greg snorted, “No, he shaved it.” He still had a weasel face though, no help for that. Didn’t mean he wasn’t a fairly decent bloke, especially the last couple of years.

          “That’s fine then, he’s good company, and he’s cute when he isn’t being obnoxious.” She capped the lotion; Greg repressed a sigh, no sex then. “How about James?” At Greg’s perplexed look she looked at him like he was slow-witted, “Dimmock, Greg, _James Dimmock_. You know: the guy who works with you?”

          “Eh…”

          “Is he seeing someone?”

          “Not that I know,” Greg was reluctant. Dimmock had carried a torch for Molly for a while, and it seemed cruel to invite him to see their domestic bliss. Or at least their domestic happiness; Greg frowned at his thoughts, that wasn’t right, just because he was annoyed right now didn’t mean Molly didn’t still make him blissfully happy. Most of the time. “Aright,” he said suddenly, “I’ll invite ‘em both.”

          “Tomorrow?”

          “First thing.” Greg reached for the lamp but Molly slipped up behind him and slid her arm around him, low on his hips. Her fingers, soft and slick with lotion, slipped in the vent of his boxers and he stilled. “Hello.”

          “Hi.” She blew a soft stream of air on his neck; bit his shoulder, “In a hurry to get to sleep?”

          He rolled onto his back, tucked her hair behind her ear, let his fingers trail down her neck, “Not particularly, no.”

          “Mmm, good,” she rubbed her cheek into his hand, turned her head and kissed his thumb, took his finger in her mouth to the first knuckle and worried it lightly with her lips and teeth. Her hand continued to slick up and down his erection, which had sprung up with gratifying promptness. She wrapped her fingers around him, squeezed as she stroked him, and smoothed her thumb over the top of the head as she reached the end. Greg sucked in a breath and arched into her touch as she continued to suck on his finger, watching him. She had grown so much more confident in bed, her ability to take the lead no longer an act she put on. Greg found it hot as fuck.

          Foreplay, while still delicious, wasn’t an hour long event anymore, except for rare Saturday mornings, and it didn’t take long before he had brought her to climax with his fingers. “I want you on top of me,” Molly breathed, her leg still draped over his hip. Greg rolled her onto her back and nudged her thighs apart with his legs, notching himself between her lips. They had decided, since Molly had an IUD, and they were both clean and in a committed relationship, to stop using condoms. Greg loved the freedom, the intimate skin to skin friction, and he plunged smoothly into Molly’s body, rocking his hips into the cradle of her groin.

          For a time, he maintained his pace, kissing her softly as he gently thrust, enjoying her slick wetness, the heat of her core, the unbearably delicious sensation of pulling almost all the way out and then sinking back into her. Molly moaned and twisted a little beneath him, and he pushed up, bracing himself on one hand while he guided her left leg up and over his shoulder. They had discovered that she came more easily this way when she was on bottom (although it wasn’t the same if her right leg was up, strangely) and she smiled her thanks, running her hand down his stomach and back up to play with his nipples.

          Holding her ankle, holding himself over her, Greg ground down, putting a little English on his thrusts and her breathing accelerated, became a bit more ragged. He felt his lungs tighten and was glad he had finally given up cigarettes. “Come on, baby, come for me,” he begged, letting go of her leg and playing expertly with her clit; a lengthy orgasm gripped her, and he stroked through it, holding back until she was arching off the bed. Falling into his own release, he shuddered, loving that he could come inside her; he didn’t want to have kids at his age, but the biological imperative to spread his seed still flourished. Plus it was arousing to think of her carrying a little of him inside her. 

          Molly clutched at him and he allowed her to pull him down on top of her. He was too much bigger, carried too much weight from his muscles and greater height to lay on her for long. But she loved the sensation of being covered by him and he pressed close and kissed her softly.

 

******

 

          “I like your place, Molly,” glancing around him, “This is a big place for one person, I’m surprised Lestrade hasn’t moved in with you yet.” Anderson missed the murderous look Greg shot him; Molly’s smile faltered but she recovered and took the bottle of wine he handed her.

          “Thanks, Philip, you didn’t have to bring anything. We’ll have this before dinner, won’t that be nice?” Molly verbally nudged Greg, and he picked up his cue.

          “Yeah, fantastic, thanks Anderson. Come in, have a seat.”

          Anderson handed Molly his coat and scarf and followed Greg into the sitting room, “Am I the first one? Sorry I’m early, I got a lot of grief from Carole for always being late to everything and now I’m always early. Can’t seem to show up on time.”

          “Is Carole your girlfriend?” Molly asked politely, catching too late Greg’s exaggerated head shake and arm waving from the kitchen doorway.

          “My wife. Erm, ex-wife.” He smiled, awkward and a bit sheepish, and Molly felt a rush of sister-feeling for him; she wasn’t great in social situations either.

          Greg brought wine glasses, the bottle opener and a plate of nibbles, and they made stiff conversation. Happily, they were interrupted soon after by Dimmock’s arrival. He greeted Greg and shed his outer things, as Greg held the bouquet of flowers the other man had arrived with. Dimmock took them with a bit of awkwardness and Greg had a sudden, fervent desire to kick himself in the arse. Why hadn’t he invited his brother, his trainer, a neighbor, Malcolm? Well, perhaps not Malcolm, he had a boyfriend who might not understand. Molly pinked and fluttered her thanks upon receiving the flowers, and Greg rolled his eyes at her. Behind their guests’ backs she stuck out her tongue.

          Thankfully the stilted small talk began to ease up after a few minutes—well-oiled by the generous glasses of wine Greg had poured—and before too long Molly’s friends had shown up. There was a flurry of introductions, misunderstood names and handshakes, and then the women disappeared into the kitchen (ostensibly to check on the food, but the sudden burst of whispering indicated gossip) and left Greg wondering why he had subjected himself to this.

 

******

 

          “That didn’t go too badly,” Molly sounded hopeful as she loaded the dishwasher, “I think Philip and Sheila had a spark.”

          Wrestling the liner out of the bin, Greg snorted so hard a bit of snot shot out of his nose, “Anderson and “spark” don’t go together.”

          “Oh you,” she started the dishwasher and began hand washing the Waterford crystal glasses she had bought at an estate sale. Greg came in from taking the rubbish to the bins out front and started putting the sitting room back in order. “Too bad James didn’t seem all that into Meena,” Called Molly from the kitchen, “but I guess she’s a little too wild to date a DI, anyway.”

          _And he’s still in love with you_ , Greg thought. He turned off the overhead light and gave Toby’s neck a scratch as he passed the sofa. The cat had spent the evening hiding in the bedroom until the company left; now he was restored to his second-favorite perch on top of the sofa.

          “Need a hand?” Greg crowded her up against the sink, slid his hands around her hips and pulled her to him with one hand, palming her through her skirt with the other.

          “I’m drying these,” Molly informed him demurely, but didn’t stop him when he inched her skirt up. The swirl of the cloth in the glass slowed and she took a deep breath, dipped her knees a little so she could ride the finger he had snuck in her knickers. “They’ll get spots…”

          “I’ll polish ‘em for you later if you come polish my knob now,” Greg smiled around her earlobe in his mouth, and circled the pad of his finger over her clit.

          “You’d better do a thorough job, I’m very particular.”

          “They’ll pass inspection,” Greg dipped his finger into her honey, spread it around her hard pink button, and pressed himself to her arse. “If not, you can spank me.”

          “Like that’s a punishment for you,” Molly dropped the tea towel, set the glass down. “I’ll have to devise something else…”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Greg work out where they're going next. Philip Anderson goes on a date. Sherlock has something to share with Molly.

          “Hiiii, Molly…” Philip’s slightly too enthusiastic greeting made Molly pinch her lips together to keep a giggle in, and when she heard John snicker she subtly kicked him behind the cover of the autopsy table. The former Army captain bit out a muffled curse and side-eyed her. “John, Sherlock,” Philip’s greeting was more subdued when he caught sight of them. He always looked abashed in Sherlock’s presence, a situation not helped along by Sherlock’s snark and baiting.

          “Good morning,” Molly said cheerfully, setting down Mr. Palmer’s skull and the Stryker bone saw she had been holding. “You teaching today?” He was dressed in navy trousers, a cream, blue and tan striped button down and a well cut suede blazer in tobacco brown. His dark hair had been trimmed and he wore it brushed to one side in a new style that certainly did more for his narrow features than his previous shaggy style. “Philip, you look smashing!”

          He flushed, and went a deeper red when John and Sherlock snorted. “Oooh, you look fetching!” Sherlock spoke in a whisper, but his la-di-da inflection was clear. Molly glared at them both and turned a smile on Philip, “Ignore them, they’re schoolboys. You really do look great, I like your hair.”

          Smoothing a hand tentatively over his new ‘do, he straightened a little, looking pleased. “Thank you, Molly. Sheila suggested I try a new way of combing it—“ He broke off when John snickered, and glared at the shorter man. “ _As_ I was saying, she suggested it…thought I’d try something new.”

          “Well it works for you!” Molly was pleased, so they _had_ hit it off, just as she suspected. That was one in the eye for Greg Lestrade! Sheila needed to see how great he looked right now. “You should let me take your picture, you can Tweet about the class you’re teaching.”

          “Thanks,” He chatted about the class in Forensic Chain of Evidence he was going to be heading that day, as she followed procedure to wash her gloves, remove her paper gown, dispose of the gloves, wash her hands and finally go to fetch her phone. _I hope Sheila appreciates this_ , Molly thought, as she directed Philip to stand in the hallway, and then decided the light in her office would be more flattering and dragged him in there. She ignored Sherlock’s impatience and John’s smirk.

          “It’s not exactly scintillating stuff,” Philip finished, “but I do enjoy getting back in the classroom.”

          “Well, and it’s important,” Molly agreed, turning him a little, so he wasn’t back lit by her desk lamp, “Sometimes the most important things are a little boring.” She took a couple of pictures, moved him around and took a few more. “How about a smile now?” Molly peeped at him over her mobile, eyes twinkling, “What makes you smile? Telling off Sherlock? A big pile of chocolate biscuits? Flogging?”

          She surprised a laugh out of him and she rapidly took the shot. Checking her phone, Molly smiled, “These are good…some are great! I’ll send you the best, eh?” He gave her his number and she texted the pictures. Asked Molly with her most innocent expression, “is it okay if I send your picture to Sheila? I’m sure she would want to see your new hairstyle.”

          Another flush of blood to his cheeks and he smiled, looking cute and a tiny bit bashful, “Of course…I gave her my number, but uh, I haven’t heard from her.”

          “She’s terrible about calling, I’ll tell her to text you, maybe the two of you can have a drink,” Molly was bright eyed at the thrill of matchmaking, no wonder Mrs. Hudson loved it, “Celebrate your hair.”

          “I’d love that,” Philip sounded eager, and Molly resolved to make sure Sheila at least gave him a chance. Better than the tossers she usually dated.

 

******

 

          That Saturday Molly got her opportunity to present her case, as she was meeting both Sheila and Meena for lunch and shopping. Meena, who was allergic to monogamy, rolled her eyes and scoffed and in general made a mockery of Molly’s enthusiastic sales pitch on Philip’s behalf. Sheila toyed with her fish, “I dunno, Molls, he’s sort of…weird, isn’t he?”

          No need to take it personally, Molly told her self-esteem, just because she and Philip had social awkwardness and a vaguely nerdy, morbid sense of humour in common didn’t mean this was a dig at her. “Weird in a good way; and a lot more interesting and well-mannered than your usual suspects.”

          Meena barked out a laugh and held her empty martini glass up at their waiter, “She’s got you there, Sheila; your taste in men is utter crap. He was a little…strange and pale, but he held up his end of the conversation, didn’t slurp his soup and he was into you.”

          “Mm, maybe. He’s been divorced though.”

          “Marriage shows he can commit!”

          “Not for long, apparently,” Shaking her head, Sheila sighed, “I just don’t know, Molly. He was nice enough but not really sexy.”

          “It’s up to you,” Molly said quietly, “I just think you’re being a little shallow. Philip is a really nice man; he has a lot of great qualities. Just because he doesn’t look like an underwear model doesn’t mean he can’t be loving or sexy or a good partner.”

          “You don’t have a lot of room to talk, Molly! You have Greg, who’s hot enough to set a girl’s knickers on fire.”

          Molly smiled softly, “True. But even if he weren’t as gorgeous as he is, I’d still love him because he’s tender and thoughtful and makes me laugh, and we have lots to talk about…and, and he brings me tea in the bath and cleans out Toby’s litter box. He’s more than just a lover. I want to grow old with him, and even when he’s a wizened old pensioner who can’t get it up, I’ll love him. Because he’s Greg.”

          Sheila and the waiter both had _awwww_ written all over their faces, and even Meena looked a little touched by the sentiment. “I’ll text him,” Sheila said thoughtfully, “Who knows? Under those boring jumpers might beat the heart of the world’s greatest lover.”

 

******

 

          “What do you want to do for your birthday?” Greg was chopping an onion for the casserole Molly was assembling, and he stopped to wipe his eyes on the back of his hand, “Bleeding hell this thing is strong!”

          “I want to get married.”

          Greg slowly lowered the knife, set down the onion and slowly wiped his hands on a tea towel, turning to face her, his expression wary. “Wha—“ He grimaced at his suddenly dry throat and swallowed, tried again, “uh, what brought this on?”

          Nerves rattled through Molly, and she wanted to change the subject, but then she thought about how much she loved Greg, the growing realization she had been experiencing over the last several months, that this was the man she wanted to spend her life with. “I don’t actually mean for my birthday,” she jested feebly, “Something in the bubble bath line would be fine.” _Don’t make jokes, Molly_. “I just…I want to be your wife. I want to be married to you.”

          It was not her imagination, Greg definitely looked less than thrilled. “Molly, sweetheart, we’ve only been dating since June. Don’t you,” he went on carefully, “Don’t you think it’s a little soon to talk about marriage?”

          The urge to apologize and say she had only been joking was so strong she opened her mouth to say just that, but what came out was, “No, I don’t. I’ve known you for nearly ten years, Greg…maybe we haven’t been dating all that long, but I’ve loved you for a long time.” She willed the tears not to fall, chin high.

          His expression softened, and he crossed the kitchen to fold his arms around her, tucking her face into his chest, “Molly, baby, don’t look at me like that.” He kissed her cheek sweetly, and pressed it with his own, “You know you own my heart,” Greg went on, voice a little gruff with emotion, “It isn’t that I don’t love you, I just—I’m not sure I want to be married again.”

          Her tears soaking his shirt, a sudden wet heat against his chest, alerted him that she was crying. “Please don’t get upset. This isn’t that big of a deal…plenty of people never get married, it isn’t like we _have_ to do it or get run out of the village or something.”

          “I _want_ to be married to you!” Molly wailed, “I love you, you wanker!” She glared at him, trying to push him away. “This isn’t about tradition! It’s about me wanting to spend the rest of my life with you.”

          Hanging onto his patience, Greg tried to pull her back to him, but she resisted, a dangerous glint in her eye. “Molly, come on, don’t make this into an issue.” He tried a reasonable tone, employed logic, “Don’t you think this is a little too soon to even be under discussion? You were engaged to marry Tom just a few years ago.” When she gasped in outrage and slapped at his hand, which was patting her back, he foolishly kept on talking, “For God’s sake, you were in love with Sherlock less than a year ago!”

 

******

 

          “He’s an idiot,” Molly sniffed, hugging Toby, her mobile wedged between her shoulder and her ear, “I can’t believe he’d say that!”

          “Men blunder around only getting it right about half the time, and most of that is luck,” Sheila pointed out, “But yeah, he’s an idiot.” She hesitated, “Is he wrong, though, Molls?”

          “Not you, too!” Molly wiped her face with the afghan she’d wrapped herself in, fresh tears spilling down her face. She missed Greg almost as much as she felt a desire to throttle him. He’d left earlier, after trying to reason with her through the bedroom door. Molly felt a bit guilty that she’d behaved so childishly, but her feelings had been so hurt. It felt like Greg was saying he didn’t want her forever, just for now.

          “I’m on your side, I’m just saying…you were gutted when Tom ended the engagement, and that was just a few years ago.” Sheila sighed gustily, “I mean, thank God, yeah? Otherwise you’d be married to him by now. But, well, maybe it’s just a little too soon to get engaged again.”

          “I want to be Greg’s wife,” Molly’s voice was small. She nibbled at her thumbnail, “I know on paper it seems to soon, but I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my life.”

          “Did you tell him that?”

          “Sort of.” Silence. “Mostly I cried.”

          Sheila giggled softly, “You muppet, why don’t you text him and tell him what you told me?

 

******

 

          After the ruckus and door slamming at Molly’s, it should have been relaxing to be at home, where it was peaceful and silent, but Greg just felt lonely and sad. It was too quiet. He missed Molly, insane hormonal weeping and all. It was just possible he shouldn’t have said that about Tom. Or Sherlock. Shit, _what_ had he been thinking?

          He picked up and sat down his phone several times. Went and a had a pee. Made himself a sandwich (he hadn’t gotten any casserole, after all). Poured a finger of whiskey in a glass, eyed it, poured a touch more in.

          Finally he gave in to weakness and called, only realizing how late it was just as John picked up on the fourth ring, “Greg, hi! Got a case for us?”

          “No, uh, no…nothing like that.”

          A pause and then John, sounding concerned, “You alright?”

          “I had a fight with Molly.”

          He could hear the sympathetic wince, “Sorry, mate. What was it about?”

          “Well, actually it wasn’t so much a fight as an ambush, failed negotiations and then a standoff.”

          John sounded amused, “I know those kinds of fights. What did you do?”

          “Oi! Who says it was me?”

          “Mate, c’mon, you’re a man, of course it was your fault. You’ve been married, you know it’s always the man’s fault.”

          There was the muffled sound of someone talking on the other end of the phone, then John’s voice, pitched low, “Stay out of it, you know fuck all about relationships.” In his normal tone, “Sorry, Sherlock tried to stick an oar in.”

          Greg raised an eyebrow, “Oh, yeah?”

          “Yeah, he informed me that it was statistically impossible for the man to always be wrong.”

          The two formerly married men shared a merry cackle at Sherlock’s ignorance.

          “We don’t really fight,” Greg said at last, sighing. “Not really.”

          “You’ve been together, what? Six, seven months—yeah, yeah, thanks, Sherlock. _Now butt out_.” John sounded exasperated, “My flat mate informs me that you and Molly have been dating for seven months, one week and four days.”

          Greg’s eyebrows shot up, “Uh, yeah, actually that’s spot on.”

          “Yes, Sherlock, he said _that’s right, Sherlock, thank you_.” John turned back to the phone, “You know as well as I do, eventually the honeymoon ends and real life happens. Was it a bad fight? Something unforgiveable?”

          Suddenly Greg thought of the years and years of loneliness and bitterness, the willful blindness and withholding of affection of being married to Karen. “No, nothing unforgiveable. I may have blown this out of proportion. She wants to get married, I said it was too soon.” Remembering, he closed his eyes and banged his head against the doorframe he was leaned against, “ _Fuck_. I told her it wasn’t that long since she was engaged to Tom and in love with Sherlock. Jesus, what a bastard thing to say.”

          John was silent, “Yeah, that’s a bit not good, Greg.” A fumbling sound, a hissed, “ _Christ, Sherlock, would you just_ —“

          “Greg?” Sherlock sounded crisp, “John has that look on his face, the one he makes when I say something A Bit Not Good. What did you do to Molly?”

          “Uh…I, she, uh, she told me she wanted to get married and I told her, well, basically I told her no.” Greg squeezed his eyes shut and spoke the rest in a rush, “And then I told her it wasn’t all that long since her engagement to Tom ended.”

          Sherlock hummed, “True as far as the facts go, but that seems to be one of those things John is always telling me is better kept to myself.” Greg couldn’t make out John’s words, but he heard his sarcastic voice in the background.

          Oh great, now his social skills were on par with Sherlock Holmes. Great, just wonderful. “…and I told her—I pointed out that less than a year ago she was in love with you.”

          Silence.

          Dead silence.

          This was getting creepy.

          “Oh Gregory,” Sherlock said slowly, “That was A Bit Not Good.”

 

******

 

          Molly received a text from Greg mid-morning but wasn’t free to check her phone until lunch. **CAN I COME OVER AFTER WORK?** It had been two days since their fight and she hadn’t seen him since then and was so happy to see his text that her hands shook as she tried to text him back. The first four efforts seemed either too effusive or too standoffish, and finally she simply responded _YES PLEASE. I MISS YOU_.

          There was no response, and she went back to work, hoping he wasn’t harboring anger. It was hours later, as she was riding home on the Tube that she felt her mobile buzzing in her hip pocket, and pulled it out to see his response. **I MISS YOU AS WELL. CHANGE OF PLANS, CAUGHT A BIG CASE. TEXT YOU LATER**.

          Another three days passed before Greg actually showed up at her flat; they had texted a bit, but he was neck-deep in a string of robberies and hadn’t much time free. She wasn’t expecting him, wasn’t prepared, either emotionally or physically. The flat was rather unkempt and she was in a pair of his boxers and an olive green sleeveless vest which read in faded letters I’M ACUTE BABY below a drawing of an acute triangle with a smiley face. Looking out the safety peep hole, Molly saw him and her hands flew to her hair, which was falling out of a ponytail. Yanking out the elastic, tears filled her eyes and she ran her hands through her hair, trying to smooth it into some semblance of order.

          “Molly?” Greg was calling, preparing to knock again when she opened the door and he dropped his hand.

          All the things she had thought over the last week deserted her, and all she could do was reach for him. His hands were already on her waist and Molly wrapped her arms around him, falling into his kiss. “God, I missed you,” he breathed, burying his face in her hair, “Oh. You changed your shampoo.”

          She laughed shakily, “I did. Oh Greg, I’m so sorry about—“ He tried to shush her but she caught his hand in hers, “No, please, let me finish. I’m sorry I acted so childishly the other day,” Molly looked down, determined not to cry this time, “I—it, you.” She stopped, took a deep breath, “It felt like you were saying you didn’t want me and I panicked. I know it’s too soon to get married, but I don’t feel like it’s too soon to talk about it. Only,” she smiled wryly, “I didn’t talk about it, I got upset and shut you out. And I’m sorry about that.”

          “I was an insensitive dick,” Greg said, rubbing her arms, “It’s freezing, let’s get out of the doorway.” He closed and locked the door and in short order had her on the couch, bundled in the afghan. “You took me by surprise, and I’m sorry for saying what I did. It’s not that I object to the idea of being married to you, Molly. I just, I’m not sure I want to be married at all—it didn’t exactly work out for me the first time. But that has nothing with me not loving you or wanting to spend the rest of my life with you. I just think it’s far too soon to even consider. I’m not a kid, I can’t jump into a decision like that without having some time.”

          “I’m not Karen,” Molly pointed out in a small voice, and he kissed her forehead, whispered, “I know.”

          They sat in silence for a moment, and then Molly tentatively began, “Greg…I told you I wanted to get married because it’s the truth, and I want to be honest with you. I didn’t mean we have to run right out and get married…just, I want you to know that you’re the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, and I want to be clear about what I want. I spent years not putting my needs ahead of my awe of Sherlock; if I had been bolder I would have straight out expressed my interest and asked him out…and gotten my answer then and there…not found out years later that we’re better off friends. After wasting how many years chasing an ideal instead of the real man? I know Sherlock, about as well as anyone can, I think, but I don’t _really_ know him, not to be in love with. I loved what I thought he was, who he could be for me.” She toyed with the fringe on the afghan, “And Tom…”

          Greg covered her hand with his, “Molly, you don’t have to explain to me—“

          “I want to. I don’t want you to think I’m not clear headed about this.” Molly looked into his eyes, saw all the love and affection and respect he’d shown her from the beginning, and had to blink back more tears. “To be honest, I didn’t see the resemblance to Sherlock, although after Mary pointed it out I felt like a fool for not copping to it sooner. But they weren’t anything alike other than a passing physical similarity. I really did love Tom, but after a while I realized that it wasn’t that I didn’t know him very well, but that he didn’t know _me_ very well. I shouldn’t have accepted his proposal, but I—I’ve wanted to have a family for so long, ever since my dad died. I was tired of being alone, and tired of waiting for the perfect man to come along. I let myself fall in love with the idea of being in love.”

          “Is that why you broke it off?” Greg asked quietly, “Because you realized you didn’t love him?” He didn’t ask, but she could hear his unspoken question; was it because she realized she loved Sherlock more?

          “I didn’t,” Molly confessed, “I let most people think that…but actually Tom ended the engagement.”

          “Baby, I’m so sorry,” Greg rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb, knowing how much that would have shaken her self-esteem.

          “It was the right thing to do, although at the time I hated him for it. But he told me—quite rightly, too, that he wasn’t prepared to play second best to another man.”

          “Sherlock,” Greg murmured, looking away; he would always loom large in Molly’s life and he needed to come to terms with—

          Molly read his mind and touched his jaw with two fingers, turned him to face her, “He broke up with me the night of John and Mary’s wedding. Because he saw me dancing with you, saw the way we looked at each other. He didn’t care about Sherlock, Greg; he saw that _you_ were the man he had to worry about.”

          “But that was—“ Greg broke off, confused, “That was ages ago. Two years ago.”

          Molly smiled at him, feeling the tears spill over, “I told you before, Gregory, I’ve had feelings for you for years. I’m not sure when it happened, but one day I realized that I could love you. Only, there was the whole terrible secret of Sherlock’s death, and I couldn’t bear to lie to you about that any more than I had to when I saw you as a friend. And at first you were separating from Karen, and going through a divorce, and I wanted to give you time. But,” Molly blushed, “I saw you out one day, and you were kissing this gorgeous blonde and then I heard a rumour that you were seeing someone. And then I met Tom and I thought, oh well, it’s just a crush, Molly, you’ve survived those. Time to move on.”

          Greg flashed back to John and Mary’s engagement drinks party, Molly’s bright, overly cheerful manner, assuring him, “I’ve moved on!” He closed his eyes, “Christ.” Opened his eyes, “It was me?”

          “It was you. I’ll be honest,” Molly said breathlessly, as he pulled her onto his lap, “It was me letting go of my obsession with Sherlock, but it was mostly me moving on from you, from waiting for something I couldn’t have, a future I couldn’t have.”

          He kissed her hard, sucking the air from her lungs, burning her with his lips, scorching her with his hunger. Molly clung to his shoulders, his arms, and let herself be swept away by his kiss. A long time later he pulled back, panting, and pressed his forehead to hers, “Molly…”

          “Not second choice, Greg. Never second choice.”

 

******

 

          As far as first dates went, this one was pretty good. Not earth-shaking or anything. Sheila wasn’t sure she could see a future with Philip Anderson, but she had to admit he was good company, an interesting dinner companion, and his evident interest in her was flattering. It was a different experience for her, going out with a man who had a successful career, no criminal record and who could carry his end of the conversation. Meena and Molly were right, she did tend to date bastards; she was thirty-five, maybe it was time to grow up, stop chasing thrills, and quit trying to reform every bad boy she met.

          Probably Philip wasn’t the answer to her dilemma; he was a little too perfect, a little too nice. Sheila had no time for someone who was going to leave her feeling like shit because of her own poor choices, the mistakes and screw ups she’d managed. She liked her life now, but she wanted a partner, a man who saw her for who she was but liked her regardless. Like Molly and Greg: neither one of them had made it through life unscathed, but their baggage complimented them, it was something they both could handle. She had been thrilled to get Molly’s text letting her know they had sat down and talked about it. Not never, just not yet sums it up, Molly’s text had said.

          “I’ve had a great time tonight, Sheila,” Philip said, smiling at her. He was almost cute when he smiled, and he really did have beautiful pale blue eyes. She definitely liked his hair better that way, although his jumper was a bit naff. What would he look like in jeans, a long sleeved top and that suede jacket he’d worn in the photo Molly had sent her?

          “Me as well,” She said, because it was the truth. She let him pull out her chair—who even still did that?!—and they walked through the crowded restaurant, his hand lightly riding her elbow. Sheila was both grateful he hadn’t tried to touch the small of her back, and a little disappointed; she wanted to know if they had any spark. Maybe she’d initiate a goodnight kiss…

          “Anderson, hey,” A leggy woman with riotous curls and a lean face was coming out of the Ladies and hailed Philip, who went stiff then relaxed and stopped to chat.

          “Hi Sally, good to see you.” He glanced at Sheila then gave the other woman’s cheek a social peck. “How are you?”

          “Good, good. Dimmock and I are having dinner, didn’t know you were here as well.” She flicked a glance at Sheila, who understood immediately that this woman had once known Philip intimately. She did her own glancing, noting the excellent legs on display below the short skirt, and the beautiful complexion and large dark eyes that leant the other woman the look of a model. “—just friends,” Sally was saying, “But you know how rumours start at the Met, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone.”

          “Of course,” Philip agreed. He touched Sheila’s arm lightly, “Sally, this is Sheila Davies, a friend of Molly Hooper’s. Sheila, this is Sally Donovan, she’s a Sargent with New Scotland Yard.”

          “Hi,” Sheila said easily, shaking the offered hand, “Nice to meet you.”

          “You too…I’d better get back or Dimmock might call in a Missing Persons.”

          They walked in silence out of the restaurant, and Sheila let him unlock the door for her but stopped him from opening it, “Did the two of you date?”

          He looked distinctly uncomfortable, “Erm, yes…” He shifted from foot to foot, “We used to date, several years ago.” He stopped talking, but Sheila could tell there was more.

          “Still seeing her?”

          He looked at her in surprise, “Oh! No. No, erm, I’m not seeing anyone else.” His face went red, “I—I mean, I’m not, um, no.”

          “It’s okay if you’re dating other people, Philip,” Sheila said with a slight smile, “This is the first date we’ve been on, I hardly expect fidelity.”

          He smiled at her attempt to put him at ease, opened and closed his mouth several times, obviously trying to find a place to start. Finally he sighed, “Sally and I aren’t seeing one another…we ended things five years ago. But at one time we were together,” He cracked his knuckles nervously, “I, uh, I was married. To another woman, my ex-wife Nina…and I had an affair, with Sally.” He closed his eyes, waiting her derision.

          “Well thank God!” Sheila said, “I was afraid you were perfect!”

 

******

 

          “We never did go for those chips.”

          Setting down the box of Greg’s things, Molly turned to look at Sherlock, who managed to look perfectly put together and unruffled, despite the fact that he had been helping them move. How on earth did he do that? It was remarkably annoying. “I could use a break,” Molly said agreeably.

          They walked down the street in amiable silence, and Molly wondered what Sherlock wanted to talk to her about. John had roped him into helping move Greg’s things into her— _their_ flat—and he had been startlingly helpful and agreeable. John had left a few hours before, since he had a shift at the clinic, and Greg had been called into work. She and Sherlock soldiered on for a bit, but Molly was glad of the respite; she wasn’t in her twenties anymore, and moving was hard work. Why on earth hadn’t they just hired a moving firm?

          “Mm, these are good,” Molly licked her fingers. “I don’t know if I can finish all these though!”

          Sherlock smiled, “I told you I always get extra large portions.” His eyes were sky blue today, and she thought that it was more than the smile that made him seem happy, approachable. Being Molly, she told him what she was thinking. His head tilted to one side, and then he nodded, “Yes, I am…happy.”

          “I’m glad,” Molly squeezed his hand then went back to her chips. “Any particular reason?”

          “I’ve been seeing a therapist,” was Sherlock’s surprising reply. “Ever since Mary died…I went to Ella, John’s old therapist?” At her encouraging nod he continued, “I—it helped. I didn’t go back for a long time, and then—after Sherrinford I went back.”

          “I’m not surprised,” Molly murmured sympathetically, “That was a lot for you to take in, a lot to process.”

          Sherlock smiled briefly but didn’t answer. Molly ate her chips. Finally he spoke again, “Talking to her has helped me with all that…the buried memories, the—“ he paused, grimaced, “the trauma.” He inspected a chip, dropped it in the basket and sat back, “We talked about you.”

          “Me?”

          For some reason her surprise amused him. “Molly Hooper, always so modest. Yes of course we talked about you; I…felt bad about what had transpired.” He looked uncomfortable, and she guessed he would rather be anywhere else, a feeling she could appreciate. She was beginning to be uncomfortable herself.

          “Sherlock, you don’t have to—“

          He scowled, “Much though I wish I were elsewhere, Ella thinks this is necessary.” A long pause, during which Molly lost her appetite for her chips, then finally Sherlock spoke again, sounding reluctant and only slightly sulky, “It isn’t only Ella who finds this necessary; I have come to realize how much I hurt you.” Despite his steady gaze, she thought he might be embarrassed. “In typical Molly fashion, you forgave me and let things go back to normal, but I never really told you honestly how much it—how much it tore at me to have to do that to you. To hurt you.” He cupped his hands, stared at his empty palms. “You always forgave my every insult, no matter what I did, and I selfishly took advantage of your good nature. And even then, that day, all you asked of me was for me to say that I loved you.”

          Molly’s face was hot, remembering that day, in all its horror, and how empty she had felt when the call went dead.

          “I do love you, Molly.” Sherlock brought his palms together, laced his fingers, and finally looked at her, “I didn’t realize it until that day how much you meant to me. Thinking that you would die, simply because you knew me, thinking I might lose you if my own behaviour had finally severed the love you felt for me was…awful.” His tormented expression told her more clearly than words how inadequate he found his effort to explain. “You asked me to tell you I loved you and I couldn’t lie, and then I realized…it wasn’t a lie. I do love you.” He looked frustrated, “I—I am not good at this. I…for a long time afterward I thought that I loved you romantically, and I was— I was very puzzled and uncertain what to do. Especially as you had moved on.”

          “Sherlock…”

          He smiled, relaxed his hands with conscious effort. “I knew I would mess this up, I’m rubbish with feelings.”

          Molly laughed a little, wiped away the tears that she just now realized she had shed. “You’re not so bad. You just need practice.” She paused and wondered how to ask him what she was thinking, then decided this day was weird enough without worrying about being polite. “Are you saying you _are_ in love with me, romantically?”

          “I am asexual—or might as well be. I have no use for sex, it is a waste of energy and time as far as I am concerned. That is not to say I am aromantic.” Sherlock looked distant, “There was…someone. Once there was someone I might have loved.” He sat up straight, blinked hard and smiled again, “I don’t know how to be normal. And that is what people in relationships want: normal.”

          “Not everyone,” Molly countered, “The right person would appreciate your Sherlockness.”

          He rolled his eyes but she saw him bite back a smile. “Regardless, I have loved before. And I did think for some time that I loved you in that way.” Sherlock sighed in a martyred fashion, “I was very confused.”

          “And now?”

          “I’m not in love with you. Which is a good thing, since Lestrade would no doubt eviscerate me if I tried to take you from him.” He smirked, “Or try, anyway.”

          “You couldn’t,” Molly said, matter-of-factly, resuming eating her chips. “Take me from him, I mean. I love him.” She sipped her drink, and smiled, “You and I are better off as friends, Sherlock, and you know it.”

          “Yes.” He inspected the remainder of his chips, made a face at their sogginess. “Everyone always underestimates you.”

          “How so?”

          “You dumped Moriarity, and now you’re Friend Zoning me.”

          A surprised giggle escaped her, “I’m amazed you know what the Friend Zone is!”

          “John is to blame. He constantly prattles about the most ridiculous things.”

          “You know his superior knowledge of pop culture has proven invaluable to you before,” Molly pointed out mildly. Suddenly she laughed, “I’m quite the badass, aren’t I? I left a criminal mastermind with blue balls and tamed Sherlock Holmes!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this last section of this chapter, it felt stilted and out of place, and yet I felt I needed to get it out there. I'd really appreciate feedback, particularly on the last part. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adjusting to living with someone else takes time, as Molly and Greg discover. Molly spends time with Anna, who is cryptic about her personal life. Girl's Night is interrupted by a disagreement. Sheila hedges her bets with Philip Anderson, while trying to keep two parts of her life separate. A house-warming party is thrown and the usual suspects are in attendance; Greg hides from a predatory young woman, Philip learns a surprising fact about Sheila, and John shows interest in a woman. And just what is Mrs. Hudson doing with a much younger man?

 

          In the peace of their bedroom, Greg and Molly made love. He was angled over her, hips moving smoothly, as she lightly clasped his waist. They didn’t speak, except for one or two murmured endearments; a soft intensity gripped them both. Their eyes were on one another as they moved together, chasing pleasure. This wasn’t a wild joining, but it was a passionate one; they had been making love for ages, they had come together a bit more frantically earlier that afternoon, fallen asleep after and following their brief nap had woken to once more find happiness in each other’s arms.

          Molly moaned and arched off the bed as her orgasm peaked, and Greg obligingly pressed her hips into the bed with his hips, increasing the depth and force of his thrusts. Shivering, she melted into the pillow, whispering, “So good…” and winning her a smile from Greg. Before long she had recovered and found another orgasm approaching; looking at his sweating face, his closed eyes, Molly guessed he was nearing release and she wrapped her legs around his hips and moved with him. In another few minutes the feel of him emptying himself inside her was enough to send her over the edge and she came with him, both of them clinging, limp and sweaty, to one another.

          A long time later Greg roused himself and patted her hip, “Earth shattering as always, my little dumpling.”

          She smiled into her pillow, “You gave a stellar performance…as usual...” A yawn overtook her and she ended on a chuckle. “Mmm, sleepy.”

          “Did I wear you out?” Greg asked tenderly but with undeniable smugness.

          Molly laughed and peeked at him, “Feeling cock of the walk, are we?”

          “I must thank Robby for telling me about the supplements.” Greg popped his neck, stretched, then pulled the covers back over them.

          “Perhaps a fruit basket,” Molly teased, wiggling into a more comfortable position.

          “Whiskey, at the very least,” Greg chuckled, and caught her fingers in his, kissing them then tucking her hand against his heart.

          His brother had told him about a powdered supplement he took twice daily, which increased the frequency of erections (and coincidentally produced copious amounts of ejaculate). It was the same amino acid as produced by the testes, and Greg had found that it was everything his brother had raved about. Not that there had been anything lacking between Molly and himself before, but knowing that he didn’t have to wait so long in between erections had increased his confidence twofold.

          Molly had become so amused at his pleased bragging that she finally told him he was two seconds away from becoming insufferably cocky. Whereupon she had cackled maniacally at her pun and left the room, still chortling. Greg figured her ribbing was a fair price to pay.

         

******

 

          “Thanks, Eamon!” Molly smiled cheerfully at the bartender as he sat down her wineglass.

          “No problem, Molly. How ya been? You haven’t been in for a while.”

          “We’ve just been so busy lately, but I’m hoping to get Greg back over for one of our usual Sunday mornings.”

          “Great.” He smiled and walked away, and Anna clucked her tongue sympathetically.

          “Poor bloke has it bad for you, Molls.”

          “What? No!” Molly shook her head, “That’s crazy. He’s closer to your age than to mine.”

          Greg’s daughter laughed, “He’s no farther in age from you than Dad is.”

          “Hmphf.” Molly sipped her drink, flattened a water droplet on the outside of the glass with the tip of one finger. “Speaking of young men—or young women—are you seeing anyone?”

          “Neither man, woman nor in-between,” Anna said brightly. “I’ve gone on a couple of dates, but most of the fellows my age are such juvenile idiots I can’t be bothered.”

          “I’m sure Greg will be pleased to hear you’re focusing on your studies rather than your social life.”

          Mischievous eyes met Molly’s, “Now, now, I didn’t say I’ve been ignoring my social life!”

          They laughed, and the talk moved on to Anna’s courses, and her favorite professor. Molly was, as always, incredibly thankful that Anna had so happily accepted her presence in Greg’s life. Their friendship made her relationship with him even better. She would never have children of her own, and Anna was too old to need “raising” but Molly had all the fun of being a step-mother without any of the responsibility. They were more like friends.

          “Ooh, is that the necklace Dad got you for your birthday?” Anna leaned forward and reached for the heart dangling from around Molly’s neck as she sat back down in the booth.

          “Oh, yes!” Molly pulled it out and showed it to Anna. It was a tiny rose gold heart incrusted with tiny diamonds, hanging from a fine chain. “He had it inscribed, it says ALWAYS on the back.” Molly smiled mistily, “He’s lovely, your dad.”

          “It’s beautiful,” Anna agreed, “he did well.”

          “He also got me a basket full to the brim with bath products,” Molly giggled, remembering her terrible joke to him that he could get her bubble bath. “All very top quality stuff.”

          “You’re welcome,” Anna said smugly, patting herself on the back.

          “Oh, are you responsible for the Lush and all the rest?”

          “Mm hm, he asked me for advice.” Anna’s eyes crinkled, “I went with him and he just kept adding to the pile. I think you’re set for baths for at least a year!”

          They laughed and Molly agreed. She didn’t mention that Greg had joined her at least three times while she was enjoying a bath bomb. Just like she kept to herself the trip they had made to Coco de Mer, in Covent Garden. The two of them had had quite the enjoyable time, and left with some lovely lingerie and quite a few toys. Truly, Greg was very adventurous.

          After their lunch they parted ways, as Anna had to return to class, and Molly headed back home, where she was to meet Sheila.

          Two hours later, Molly was alphabetizing her books while Sheila—who was meant to be helping—instead dug through Greg’s boxes of vinyl records. “Wow! He has quite the eclectic collection, doesn’t he?”

          “He does,” Molly agreed, “Once we have everything settled from the move we’ll have to invite you over for dinner. Greg can play some of his records for us.” She peeped at Sheila, asked casually, “Shall we invite Philip as well?”

          “We’ll see.”

          A frustratingly cryptic non-answer, Molly considered. “I thought your date was a success?”

          “It went well,” Sheila countered, looking up from the albums, “Not the same thing.”

          “So you’re not going to see him again?” Molly told herself it was stupid to be disappointed. Nevertheless, she just had an idea that once they got to know one another, Sheila and Philip would make a good match. “Is it because of Anthony?”

          “No,” Sheila assured her, “It has nothing to do with that. Not that he came up during dinner or anything.”

          “What is it?”

          Sheila sighed and threw her hands up, “Oh my God, Molly, what is this? Why do you care so much?”

          Blushing, Molly put down the books she had been sorting and picked at the seam of her jeans, “I don’t know…just, I see possibilities for the both of you. He’s genuinely a nice guy, and you _deserve_ that!”

          “It would be churlish of me to argue,” Sheila laughed, “Okay…if you must know, Molly, I have seen Philip again. Twice since our first date.” She waved her hands when Molly squealed softly and bounced up and down, “Calm down. Just as friends. I told him I wasn’t sure if I was looking for a relationship right now.”

          “Oh,” Molly said, deflating a bit. But then her brown eyes started to gleam and Sheila sighed to herself. Molly was ridiculously romantic and no doubt was concocting a romance novel worthy plotline in her head right now. “That’s good,” Molly finally said, “Friendship is…good.” She dimpled and went back to her books.

          The books were all arranged and they were listening to The Talking Head’s _Remain in Light,_ and drinking wine when Greg came home. “I see you got my stereo set up,” was all he said, shedding his coat and toeing off his shoes. He bent over the back of the sofa and kissed Molly’s upturned face, squeezing her shoulder. “Hi Sheila,” he said with a tired smile.

          “Hi Greg, hope you don’t mind, I was very careful.”

          “Naw, that’s fine. Saves me a step later. I really need to tackle those boxes, get it all arranged. Although Toby loves perching on them and leaping about,” he laughed and held up his battered leather attache case, “Just going to drop this in the office.”

          He came back a few minutes later, in jeans and a jumper and accepted the glass of wine Molly handed him.

          “We’re thinking we should have a party when we’re all done with this,” Molly said, waving a vague hand at the chaos of their sitting room, “Sort of a house warming party.”

          “Come and look at our smug happiness party,” Sheila gently mocked, and ducked Molly’s laughing swipe.

          “Sure, yeah, we can do that,” Greg agreed tiredly. It had been a long day, and as much as he liked seeing Molly enjoy herself, and as much as he genuinely liked Sheila, he wasn’t in the mood for entertaining right now. “Any chance we’ve got anything planned for dinner?” He asked gently.

          Molly shook her head, “Not really…we’ve been eating cheese and bread with our wine and I’m honestly pretty stuffed.” She reached for her phone, “Let’s order in!”

          Greg stopped her, “Don’t worry about it, I’m not in the mood for more takeaway. If you girls aren’t hungry I’ll just open a tin of soup or something.” He stifled a sigh. He didn’t expect Molly, who had her own full-time career, to cook dinner for him and wait on him, but as tired as he was he had been looking forward to a quiet, _home-cooked_ dinner at home, and an early night.

          Sheila looked between them, “It’s getting a bit late, I’ve got to be going, and I still have to swing by Mum’s. Thanks for the wine, Molly. Greg, thanks for letting me listen to your music. I’ll see you both later!”

          Molly waved her off from the door, and began picking up the mess on the coffee table, quaffing her wine as she tidied, and Greg took his untouched wine into the kitchen. Maybe he could pour it back in the bottle as he wasn’t in the mood for drink tonight. Molly had certainly had enough; she was looking a little unsteady on her feet. That hope was dashed, however, when she dropped the empty wine bottle in the bin and it cracked upon hitting the other occupant.

          “I was going to pour this in,” Greg sighed. The damn liner was probably going to get cut from broken glass now, and rubbish would spill everywhere the next time they emptied it.

          “That’s alright,” Molly told him, “I’ll drink this if you don’t want it.”

          “I think you’ve had enough,” He pointed out nicely.

          Apparently not nicely enough, because she turned around, “Pardon me? What do you mean, I’ve had enough? Are you implying that I’m drunk?”

          “Just saying you probably don’t need another glass,” Greg smiled soothingly.

          “I think I know my limits. I’m at home, for God’s sake, it’s not like I’m going to be driving anywhere!” Molly defiantly swallowed a bit too much wine and tried not to cough. Her eyes glared at him over the rim. “What put you in such a foul mood? You hardly talked to our company; Sheila couldn’t get out of here fast enough…and then you were making all those remarks about _more_ takeaway!” She sneered, feelings obviously on edge.

          “We’ve been spending a lot on restaurants and delivery, that’s all,” Greg attempted to keep his voice down, even as he felt his temper rise, “There’s two of us, I think we can manage one or two meals at home every week, don’t you? I mean, you didn’t work today…”

          Her expression hovered somewhere between furious and hurt, and Greg wanted to reach out and tell her to drop it, they were just tired and drunk and they could talk about expectations for cohabitation later. But he didn’t have time, because Molly had landed on anger, and suddenly they were in the middle of a flaming row.

          Half an hour later, Greg stood under the spray of the shower and reflected that the neighbors probably wished they were still playing music too loud, instead of yelling at each other about cooking and chores. It looked like there was going to be a period of adjustment to living together.

 

******

 

          “It was awkward,” Sheila groaned, leaning one hip against the kitchen counter and stirring her own tin of soup while she kept an eye on the sitting room. “I’ve not seen the two of them be anything other than sweetness and light together.”

          Philip’s warm laugh sounded in her ear, “I can’t imagine Molly Hooper getting really angry—although there is a rumour that she slapped Sherlock Holmes a few years ago. Not sure how reliable that is, but when he’s being unbearable I think about it with pleasure.”

          The girlishness of her own giggle surprised Sheila, and she wondered if she was acting the part of someone else when she was with him, or if he allowed her to be someone she hadn’t had the freedom to be in years.

          Shaking off her thoughts—far too deep and troublesome for a Tuesday evening—Sheila tested the temperature of the soup with a tentative slurp. The toasted cheese was finishing in the toaster oven and all she had to do was pour drinks and they could eat. “My dinner is almost ready, I’ve got to go. You’ll have to tell me more about these sadistic thoughts of yours over dinner—we still on for Friday?”

          “Absolutely,” he said warmly, his eagerness clear. She felt bad for telling him she wanted to be friends, when he so clearly would welcome more. But it was best for now…considering everything.

          Ending the call she turned off the burner and dished up the soup, and started carrying food to the table, “Anthony, dinner’s ready!” Right now, all she had room for was one man in her life.

 

******

 

          “I’m a terrible beast.”

          Molly’s miserable sounding murmur stopped Greg as he went to ease himself out of bed. His mobile had chimed softly a moment before, with his alarm going off, waking him for another work day. Instead of getting up to shave and ready himself for the day, he lay down next to her and peeked under the covers Molly had drawn over her head. “I’m sure you _feel_ beastly,” he joked a bit, smiling at her. She smiled back, then whimpered.

          “Poor love, do you have a dreadful hangover?” At her feeble nod Greg stifled the desire to point out that cracking open that third bottle of wine had been a bad idea. Not that they had been on speaking terms at that point, so she wouldn’t have listened to him. “Back in a tick.”

          Ten minutes later he returned with a mug of very strong coffee, some Nurofen Plus, a large glass of water and a kiss. “Can you manage to sit up and take this?” She propped herself on one elbow and managed to swallow her medicine, thirstily downing the water. “Thanks,” Molly said raspily. She let her heavy head drop against, him, “God, I feel dreadful. I was drunk and abusive last night. I’m sorry.”

          “We had a fight,” Greg said, rubbing the back of her neck, “I’m not proud of us for shouting and then ignoring one another, but it will take some time…figuring out the rules of living together.”

          She moaned as he massaged her neck, and he dropped a kiss on her tangled hair, “I’ll call in and tell work you’ve got a bad headache. You can’t function like this.”

          “I should go in,” Molly whispered, eyes closed, “It’s unprofessional to miss work because I’m hungover.”

          “It wouldn’t look too good if you puked, either.” She made a face and lay back down, so he dialed Mike Stamford and arranged for Molly to have the day off. “You’re going to have to take MacAllister’s on-call Friday, but you’ve got today off.”

          “Thank you,” Molly opened her eyes, squinted at him, “I’m really sorry about last night.”

          “I know you are. So am I. We can talk about it when you feel better, eh? I have to get ready for work, but can I get you anything? How about some breakfast—no time for a proper fry up, but I can manage toast, maybe some eggs.”

          “Ugh, just some toast before you go. And an ice pack?”

          “How about cinnamon toast?”

          “Mm, maybe. That sounds sort of appetizing.”

          Greg got her settled for the day and left for work, reflecting that seeing someone you loved miserable was enough to make any fight seem petty and pointless.

 

******

 

          By Sunday, Molly was feeling her normal self, and able to face the thought of a drink without cringing. They decided to return to the pub for their old custom of drinks, checkers, debating over the paper, and then a walk. They had invited Anna to join them, but she regretfully declined, siting an essay that needed to be finished.

          Molly was happy to see that Eamon wasn’t there; Anna’s teasing and Sherlock’s half-forgotten words from Greg’s fiftieth haunted her. She knew how it felt to pine for someone you couldn’t have; she sincerely hoped that if Eamon had ever had feelings for her, that they were gone.

          After a lovely time, they decided to have a walk through the neighborhood. It was a cloudy, chilly March day, but the sun was attempting to shine, and they were both in a good mood. They had hashed out their expectations for living together, and agreed that they could make some effort to eat at home, sharing the load of cooking. “Don’t expect a lot,” Molly had warned, “I’m okay, but just okay.  I mean, you’ve had my casserole—that’s pretty much the best I can do. That was one of the things I liked about not having flat mates—I could eat out or just have cheese for dinner!”

          “I’ve gotten fairly good at cooking,” Greg had told her, “I got sick of eating out after the divorce, and I wanted a way to pass the time all alone in the flat. I’ll take care of the fancier stuff. You can open tins and cut sandwiches.”

          “Glad it’s dry today,” Molly commented now, tucking her arm through Greg’s and snuggling up to his side. “I’ve been feeling cooped up lately, between work and the hangover, and all the boxes in the house. It’s nice to get out and stretch our legs.”

          “Let’s make an effort to finish unpacking when we get home,” Greg suggested, “it’s a lot of unnecessary pressure on us to have to wind our way through the mess. Besides, I could use the activity; I haven’t been to the gym in almost a month.”

          “Henry is going to think I’m a terrible influence,” Molly mourned, “Once we have the flat settled, you should go back to your usual Wednesdays and Saturdays.”

          “Are you sure? You won’t feel like I’m trying to spend time away from you, will you?”

          “Don’t be silly, of course not. I know how much work you put into getting in shape, and you don’t want your gym membership to languish. Besides, I can get together with the girls Wednesday nights while you’re with Henry. And maybe you can switch your Saturday sessions to earlier in the day so we have more time together when we’re both off? And I can go shopping or go to brunch with my friends when you’re punishing yourself at the gym on Saturdays.”

          Greg stopped and kissed her, “Sounds like a proper plan to me.”

 

******

 

          The following Wednesday, while Meena was out of the country on business, Sheila and Molly got together. Molly had invited Anna, but she was busy with friends of her own. _Definitely not eschewing a social life_ , Molly thought with amusement. She made a mental note to talk to Anna, and make sure she was on top of her studies, and not involved with someone she felt she couldn’t introduce to them.

          “Is it safe to come in without a pith helmet?” Sheila ducked her shoulders and looked furtively around when Molly opened the door.

          She laughed, “Come in, you nut. No fighting, I swear. We made up and all is rosy once more.”

          “Thank heavens for that. It was like being at a sleepover and suddenly your mate’s mum and dad are in the middle of a row, smiling the whole time. Very uncomfortable.”

          “Sorry about that,” Molly sighed, “Living together is going well, for the most part, but we’re not exactly kids…changing our habits to suit another person is taking some work. It’s worth it, though!”

          “I brought wine,” Sheila flourished a bottle, “Or is it too soon?”

          A shudder gripped Molly, “No thank you! None for me, but I’ll get the corkscrew and a glass if you want some. I can’t stomach the idea of wine just yet.”

          They settled in to gossip after placing their order for Thai food, and were well on the way to planning the house-warming party by the time Greg came home. He greeted them both, kissed Molly and excused himself to shower and change. Sheila watched him go, “Even all sweaty he’s yummy.”

          “I know,” Molly said meaningfully, watching him close the bedroom door.

          Sheila glanced at her and started laughing, “Oh my God, you want to go in there and rip off his clothes, don’t you?”

          A blush was her answer, but Molly protested, assuring her friend that she was having a great time. Sheila would have none of it, immediately standing to put on her boots and gather her things. “Nonsense, last time I left here because you two were fighting. This is a much better reason! Go get him!”

          Molly grinned and went to burst in on a very surprised and quite pleased Greg.

 

******

 

          The flat was dark, it was late, and Sheila lay in bed, unable to sleep. Anthony was passed out next to her, softly snoring, and she wished she could do the same.

          It had been a long day, work was alright—work generally was—it was her personal life that had all the drama. After leaving Molly and Greg’s, and following a quick trip to her Mum’s, then the shops for groceries, Sheila had been looking forward to a simple dinner (she hadn’t gotten to finish her Thai food), cuddling in front of the telly with Anthony, and then bed.

          Instead there had been an interminable line at Tesco, a disagreement in the pasta aisle, sulking and then uneaten dinner and tears. Sheila sighed silently. Sometimes she really envied her friends; Meena with her job in fashion blogging, her freelance photography assignments, her frequent travels and her footloose lifestyle wasn’t truly what Sheila wanted for her own life, but she wished she could have a fifth of the freedom Meena enjoyed. And Molly, she might have to work at it, but she had a fulfilling job, a lovely home and she was madly in love with the man who was madly in love with her. Sheila hadn’t ever had that level of reciprocation in a relationship, not really.

          It was no use feeling sorry for herself, she had made her bed years ago and she was not only going to lie in it, she was going to sleep. After all, tomorrow was another work day.

 

******

 

          It was a somewhat eclectic mix, their group of friends; the Stamfords were happily chatting with Greg’s oldest friend Malcolm and his partner Stephen, while on the couch next to Helen Stamford, Sherlock fed nibbles to Rosie Watson. John was chatting up Meena, who looked very interested, while Sally Donovan and James Dimmock were talking to Greg’s brother Robby, about, apparently, rugby.

          Janice, Greg’s lovely mum, sat in Molly’s favorite armchair, chatting brightly with Rosie, who answered her in mostly unintelligible gibberish in between bites of cheese.  Anna and her Great Uncle Norris were in the kitchen, hunting for soft foods, as he had forgotten his dentures. Anna’s friend Hyacinth (who was, in Molly’s opinion, far too flirtatious around Greg) was looking politely bored while Philip Anderson enlightened her about his theories on how Sherlock had jumped from Bart’s rooftop and lived. Mrs. Hudson was pouring herself a second glass of wine and trying to chat up Henry, Greg’s personal trainer.

          Molly waved off the departing neighbors who had dropped by, and checked her phone to see if Sheila had responded to her last text. She hoped nothing was going to keep Sheila from coming, her life could be hectic, and she deserved all the fun she could get.

          “I think it’s going well, don’t you?” Molly tucked her hand in Greg’s when he popped up at her side. “Where have you been?”

          “Hiding in the loo,” Greg hissed. “Stay at my side, will you? Anna’s friend Petunia is stalking me.”

          “Hyacinth,” Molly corrected him automatically. Her brows slammed together, “Oh is she? Well, we’ll just see about that.”

          He caught her arm with a muffled laugh, “Slow down, I don’t mean literally. Just…Anna told me once that Hyacinth has a bit of a crush on me, and it makes me uncomfortable to be around her. And every time I looked up tonight, there she was.”

          Molly took a firm grip on his arm, “Stick with me, handsome. I’ll protect you.”

          “Thank you. I don’t know which is worse, having her try to talk to me about music or watch Mrs. Hudson prowling Henry.”

          “He might like older women,” Molly said optimistically.

          “He’s only thirty-two.”

          

“And yet he’s still talking to her,” Molly pointed out triumphantly, “And he’s refilling her glass.”

          “Just being polite, no doubt.”

          “I personally hope he goes home with her. Mrs. Hudson would undoubtedly show him the time of his life. She used to be an exotic dancer, you know.”

          Greg’s slightly wild-eyed expression tickled her, but Molly managed not to laugh. “John seems to be doing alright with Meena.”

          Greg looked their way, “John’s never had trouble with women. Well, except for when they meet Sherlock.”

          They both laughed guiltily, but Molly sobered, “I hope he’s just looking for something casual. Meena has no interest in a relationship.”

          “Bit of a man-eater,” Greg said, earning him a severe look from his girlfriend.

          “Not really. She had a very unhappy affair when she was younger, and she doesn’t really trust men, nor does she want a relationship of any kind. Or so she says. Sometimes I think her cynicism is a front. Hard to tell. For all she’s so opinionated, Meena plays her cards close to her chest.”

          “Well perhaps she and John can have a little fun. She’s been exposed to Sherlock before, at least, so she knows what to expect.”

          “He’s mellowed,” Molly said thoughtfully, and at Greg’s somewhat incredulous look, she continued, “Well, sort of. A bit. Look at him with Rosie. He’s really quite good with her.”

          “As long as his attention isn’t drawn elsewhere,” Greg said cynically. Molly had to agree. Sherlock still had the attention span of a gnat when something more enticing came along.

          The doorbell chimed and Molly hurried to answer it, delighted to find Sheila on the mat, and surprised to see that she had Anthony with her. “Hello! Come in, I was starting to wonder if you were coming.” Molly hugged them both and smiled at Anthony, who was looking a bit grumpy.

          “Sorry,” Sheila said under her breath, “I had to bring him, my—“ The rest of her sentence was lost in the flurry of greetings. Philip caught sight of Sheila and hurried across the room, looking happy to see her and eager to greet her.

          “Sheila, hi! I was afraid maybe you weren’t going to be here tonight,” He greeted her, leaning in for a hug. She felt the moment he caught sight of Anthony and stiffened. “Oh, hello.”

          She smiled a bit weakly, “Hi, Philip. Anthony, this is my friend Philip. Philip, this is my son Anthony.”

 

******

 

          Hours later, after almost all the guests had left, the stereo in the sitting room was softly playing Ella Fitzgerald, and the fire in the grate was slowly burning down. By its gentle light, and the two strategically lit lamps that Molly had turned on, Philip and Sheila sat on the sofa. Molly had babbled her way out of the room and was keeping Greg hostage in the kitchen so the other couple could be alone.

          Anthony had gone down for a nap in their bedroom, and Greg had an uneasy feeling that once all the dishes were done, Molly would make him sit in the second bedroom, which they had turned into an office, and wait for Philip to make a move or Sheila to declare it was time to go.

          In the sitting room, Sheila was torn between feeling defensive and apologetic. She didn’t like either feeling and was well on her way to blowing up at Philip for something he hadn’t done and storming off. Only, it would be a bit hard to storm off when she had to wake up her six year old and get him dressed for the cold; hard to emit high-dudgeon under those circumstances.

          She kept waiting for Philip to ask her why she hadn’t mentioned to him that she had a son. On the surface it was a fair question. They had been on one date, had several telephone conversations, and spent time together on four separate occasions between their date and tonight. It probably seemed reasonable to expect that she might have at least said in passing, oh hey, I have a kid. But Anthony was very special to her, and she had tried dating men and introducing him to them. Either the man got scared off, or he tried too hard to be buddy-buddy, which neither she nor Anthony appreciated…especially when eventually the relationship ended and the man she had let into her son’s life disappeared.

          So far, Philip hadn’t asked her any awkward questions. He had made an effort to talk to Anthony, and while it was clear he was not used to small children, at least he was polite and not condescending. At the moment he was telling her a funny story about a crime scene he had worked once, when he was with CID. Sheila twitched with impatience. Surely any minute now he was going to either assure her he loved kids and had always wanted to be a dad, or tell her he couldn’t trust a woman who had lied to him for six weeks.

          Apparently not…Sheila finally interrupted him. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I haven’t told you about Anthony?”

          He looked surprised that she had cut him off mid-story, but he was polite. “Well, no. I mean, yes, I was surprised you never said anything. But it’s your business, Sheila.” Philip touched her hand, “You made it clear you want to be friends, so I hope you know you can tell me anything you’re comfortable sharing. But your private life is just that.” He looked suddenly tired, “I worked at the Met for years, having an affair with a collegue, all my colleagues and work friends privy to my private life. It would have been nice to know people who weren’t aware of so many intimate facts about me. So I get that you didn’t tell me.”

          “It doesn’t say anything about you,” Sheila said earnestly, aware that she didn’t want him to think otherwise. “You’ve been lovely, and I’ve enjoyed our dinners and our coffee—“ she had been about to say dates, but since she was the one who had set boundaries on their relationship, that didn’t seem suitable. “—meetings. I guess I’m just tired of explaining that Anthony’s dad isn’t in the picture, and no, I haven’t been married, and then introducing Anthony to someone only to have to explain to him a month or two later that I’m not dating that bloke anymore. It’s too much for a kid his age. I’m trying to give him a stable life.”

          “I’m sure you are,” Philip said bracingly, “You’re extremely level headed.”

          Sheila laughed a bit wetly, “Now maybe. But had you seen me seven or eight years ago, you wouldn’t have said that.”

          “People change,” he said simply, “And sometimes, as in your case, for the best of reasons.”

          He really did have a very sweet smile. “Well, Anthony’s met you now, so perhaps sometimes you can come over for dinner with the two of us.”

          “If you’re sure you want me in his life…”

          “Are you sure friendship is going to be enough for you?” Sheila felt her face heat up; it felt very bald to just say it, but it needed to be said. “I’m not sure I’ll ever want more than that. I don’t mind introducing him to a friend, assuming you’re going to stick around.”

          “I’m happy to be your friend. I mean, yes, I’d like more, if you ever want it. Not to pressure you or anything! Just, I want you to know, I do, I do like you. Friendly-like of course, but more---“ His face got a bit panicky, and she swallowed a laugh; he really was appallingly awkward sometimes, the dear. “But I’m not playing a long game or anything, it’s not like I’m a shark waiting for a fat fish to swim by so it can snatch it up!” His eyes widened as he realized what he had said, “Oh God, not that you’re fat! You’re not; you’re lovely, really, very fit. And you aren’t a fish, not at all, so warm and lovely and—Oh Christ…”

          Sheila was giggling and she leaned in without thinking and kissed him, saying, “its fine, Philip, I know what you meant!” Only her lips touched his and…oh dear. Oh dearie, dear, dear. There was that spark she thought was missing. Oh this was so not good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The amino acid Greg takes is called L-Citrulline, and I have no idea if it is effective or not. All I know about it I found on a forum online, so do your research and talk to a physician if you are interested!
> 
> Since in the UK "vest" seems to mean undershirt, while here in the US "vest" means waistcoat, I'm not sure if readers across the pond are familiar with "play your cards close to your vest" It does not necessarily have anything to do with strip poker! Old-timey gamblers used to play their cards close to their vest, ie: hold their hand so no one could see.  
> ***the above phrase was edited in the work, to reflect a more British usage, per the lovely Woaf. ***  
> **Also, check out Coco de Mer's website sometime. Woaf brought it to my attention and it is amazing.**


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly pokes things with a stick. Sherlock gets tied up in knots. John takes matters into his own hands. This summary sucks.

          “The flat looks great,” Meena complimented, taking her coffee from Molly. “This sofa is much better than your old one,” she went on, blowing gently at her drink.

          “Greg’s,” Molly supplied, sitting down cross-legged in her armchair. “It’s long enough for him to stretch out on, deep enough for us both to snuggle up on, and so soft.” She had willingly donated her old sofa, and her mismatched end tables, along with a few other things. The house was now a comfortable mishmash of their belongings and styles. She had thrown a multicolored cotton tapestry over the back of the dark brown leather sofa, and added a few accent cushions as well, tying it in with her own more colorful furnishings.

          A large professionally framed and matted photograph of a rambling farmhouse was Greg’s, an image of his boyhood home in Wiltshire; they had hung it over the mantel, upon which stood a collection of knickknacks and memorabilia belonging to both of them. Her books and his were now mixed together, but neatly alphabetized and catalogued (Molly had a slight case of OCD and a deep appreciation of the Dewey Decimal system), filling the shelves that took up all the wall space on both sides of the fireplace. Greg had set up his large shelving system along the wall opposite the front door and filled it with his albums.

          A slightly threadbare Persian rug they had bought together at an estate sale tied in with the colors of the sofa, armchair and walls, making the flat look much more intentionally decorated. Greg’s unusual collection of black and white photographs shared the remaining wall space with Molly’s enlarged prints of blood and plasma. It should have looked slightly gruesome, but instead it had a sort of bohemian art gallery charm.

          “I approve,” Meena smiled, “It’s still you, but it’s him too. Not bad, Hooper.” Finally taking a sip of her coffee, she raised a brow, “Mmm, excellent coffee.”

          “Thanks for the approval, that means a lot coming from a design obsessed coffee addict.” Molly grinned. “I love that ridiculously fancy coffee maker of Greg’s, but thank heavens the kitchen is as big as it is or there wouldn’t be room for it!”  
          “So you’re finally using the kitchen for its intended purpose?”

          “Not me. I’m allergic to cooking. You know all I make are cocktails, Christmas biscuits and my casserole.”

          “Ah yes, The Casserole.”

          Molly flung a ginger nut at her, “Shut it, you. When’s the last time you cooked anything?”

          “Why cook?” Meena shrugged broadly, “That’s what dates and takeaway are for.”

          “You modern women,” Greg commented, on his way from the kitchen to the office, “My gran would roll over in her grave.”

          “That’s the price you pay when you date a younger woman!” Molly shouted cheerfully. He made a rude noise and they giggled. Meena watched him go and clucked approvingly, “He really does have a fantastic arse on him.”

          “Eyes above the waist, please,” Molly said primly, and they laughed again. It was a lovely cozy day to be inside, the fire lit and the curtains drawn against the raw, unpleasant weather outside. Molly and Greg cherished their quiet days at home when they could relax, work on projects or chores, or just be lazy. It had been a hectic week and Molly was aware Greg would have preferred that they spend their day quietly at home alone, but since Meena had been out of the country so much lately, Molly was trying to find time to spend with her. She would most likely stay for lunch, but after Meena left, Molly hoped she could lure Greg back to bed and spend the day there. She didn’t think it would take much to convince him.

          “So what’s all this I hear about Sheila and Philip?” Meena finished her coffee and stretched out on the sofa. “She’s being amazingly close-mouthed about it all.”

          Molly’s eyes were round with excitement, “The two of them stayed after everyone had left the other night, and Greg and I happened to be in the kitchen while they—“

          “She set the stage like a play and dragged me out of the room,” Greg corrected, standing in the doorway. “Soft light, romantic music and all. Molly’s matchmaking with a vengeance, you’d best watch out.” He grinned and held up his empty cup, “More coffee?”

          Meena accepted but Molly just stuck her tongue out at her boyfriend. “Anyway,” she said, “before I was so rudely interrupted, I was telling you…the sitting room was the perfect place for them to move from friendship to something more.” Molly smiled, “Sheila wouldn’t tell me much, but I know they kissed.”

          “Just a kiss?” Meena was disappointed, that hardly seemed worth Sheila’s reticence and Molly’s fanfare.

          “Apparently it was a very nice kiss,” Molly said significantly. Greg came back in the room and handed a fresh cup of espresso to Meena, who cocked at eyebrow at him, “How does Molly know it was a nice kiss?”

          “She grilled Sheila like a trout,” Greg said cheerfully, and leaned over the back of Molly’s armchair to hand her a fresh cup and kiss her, “The next day, of course. Naturally Anderson took Sheila home that night.” He corrected himself, “Drove her to her home, I mean. She and Anthony.”

          “It was all the things Sheila didn’t say,” Molly insisted, “I could tell it had affected her. Besides, she just wanted to be friends and this complicates things.”

          “He shouldn’t have kissed her if she made it clear—“ Meena stopped, as both Molly and Greg were shaking their heads, “No?”

          “She kissed him,” Molly said with meaning. “And apparently it was loaded.”

          “My, my. Well, it’s not the worst thing in the world, is it? They’re both adults, he seems tame but nice—and she could certainly do with a nice bloke—so I’m not sure what all the fuss is.”

          “You know she doesn’t want to introduce Anthony to any more fly-by-night boyfriends.”

          “Anderson is hardly that,” Greg stood up, “I’m going back to my nice murders if the two of you are going to gossip about his love life.”

          “Murders?” Meena’s brows raised, “Isn’t he off-duty?”

          “Cops never really go off-duty, I think,” Molly’s voice was thoughtful, “Not if they have an on-going case that they can’t stop focusing on. But actually, Greg is working on cold cases…when he has time he’ll pull them out and comb through everything. Actually, I’ve been going through them with him and we came up with a few interesting avenues to follow.”

          “You two really are suited,” her friend judged, wrinkling her nose slightly at the thought of spending a perfectly lovely day off looking at old case files. “I’m surprised he doesn’t ask the dickhead for help.”

          “Sherlock, you mean? He doesn’t really get involved in cold cases, he likes them hot.” Chuckling, Molly sat forward to readjust the cushion behind her back. Casually, she went on, coming around to the very subject she had wanted to bring up since Meena arrived. “Every once in a while John convinces him to take one on.”

          “Hmm.” Meena sat down her espresso cup in the saucer, and met Molly’s eyes, “I’m sure he convinces him to do a lot of things he isn’t inclined to.”

          “What do you mean?”

          “Molly, the two of them are so far up one another’s arses I’m surprised they can see daylight.” Meena’s large, expressive dark eyes registered her surprise when she saw Molly’s bewildered expression, “Don’t tell me you don’t know?”

          “Know what?”

          “Honey, Sherlock Holmes is so gay I’m surprised he doesn’t wear a crown; and his good friend John may not realize it yet, but he’s desperately in love with him.”

          Several sentences tried to form in Molly’s mind, but none of them ever made it to her lips. Finally she managed, “What do you mean…you mean, Sherlock is gay? Like, gay for men, gay?”

          “Come _on_! Don’t try to tell me you couldn’t tell? Honey, I know you had that disastrous crush on him but surely you’ve noticed what a secret queen he is.”

          Molly’s head was spinning. She honestly didn’t give a fiddler’s damn if Sherlock was gay, but it was hard to wrap her head around. Meena made it sound obvious, and yet she, Sherlock’s friend and sometime colleague had spent years around him and never suspected. She suddenly remembered their conversation from a few months prior, when he told her he had been in love with someone once. Oh God, it was John, it was John he loved and all these years he’d had to be silent about it and… “How sad,” she finally said softly, “He’s in love with John and John’s not—“

          “Oh I’ve no doubt that tall drink of water is in love with his friend—assuming he can feel emotions, but I was actually talking about the good doctor.”

          “ _What?_ ”

          “Molly, it was obvious. He was trying to hit on me, but all he could talk about was Sherlock.” Meena looked thoughtful, “I wonder if I could get him into bed whilst he’s still in denial?”

 

******

 

          “You’ve been awfully quiet,” Greg said, putting the leftover food away as Molly loaded the dishwasher. Meena had indeed stayed for lunch, a meal ably cooked by himself, and after she had gone, they had moved to clean up the kitchen. Molly, he had noticed, had been pretty subdued for the last few hours. “Is everything alright? Is there something going on with Meena? You don’t have to tell me if it’s private.”

          “She’s fine.” Molly started the dishwasher and stood staring at it for a moment, then shook her head. “Greg…did—did you ever suspect that Sherlock might be gay?”

          “Naw, that’s…well.” He stopped his automatic denial and looked thoughtful, then met her eyes, looking slightly amazed. At least she wasn’t the only one. “Christ, now that you mention it…I can kind of see where he might be. I mean, if he did relationships. Or sex. Wow. Uh, why did you bring that up?”

          She told him about the conversation with Meena; he was with her in bemusement over the idea of John Watson being gay. “They _are_ really, hmm, intense.” Greg finally said, sounding thoughtful. “I mean, I know they’ve been through a lot, but…well, I’ve never had that kind of relationship with another man, not even my brother, or my first partner at the Yard, and he saved my life. They’re like an old married couple, with the way they fight, but there’s also this, hmm, this sort of, I don’t know, this buzzing pressure when you’re in a room with the two of them—even when the situation isn’t tense because of a case or the like.”

          A bit hesitantly, because her conversation with Sherlock had been full of private revelations that Molly wasn’t entirely certain he would want becoming someone else’s knowledge, she shared the discussion they had had the day of the move. The two of them shared a look, and agreed that it was possible not only that Sherlock was gay, but that he was in love with John. “I don’t know about him, though,” Molly said at last. “Meena seemed convinced that there was something there, but John’s straight, I mean, how many times has he said so whenever someone thought the two of them were a couple? And he was married—you can’t tell me he didn’t genuinely love Mary.”

          “I’m not disputing any of that, sweetheart. It’s a mystery. And no matter how interesting it is…it’s not really any of our business.”

          “Well that’s not satisfying to my curiosity at all,” Molly grumbled.

 

******

 

          “Hi, John! What are you doing here alone?” Ah ha! He was alone. Perfect.

          John turned toward Molly’s cheerful greeting and smiled, “Hey, Molly. I was looking for you; actually I’m on my own because I wanted to ask a favour. Nothing to do with a case; Sherlock wanted to go to Vienna in a few weeks for a criminologist convention and he’s insisting I go—not that I can complain, never been to Austria, and he’s paying, after all—but it does leave me with the question of what to do with Rosie. I can hardly ask Mrs. Hudson to watch her all that time.”

          Vienna! How romantic. Molly could hardly contain the urge to squeal. Perhaps there _was_ something between the two of them and this was the perfect opportunity for Sherlock to tell John… “When and for how long?” She asked, turning practical.

          “A month and a half from now, we’d leave on the second and be back four days later.”

          “Let me talk to Mike. If I can arrange things I’ll take some of my holiday time.” Blinking at him innocently, “Why don’t you two stay a day or two longer? After all, how often do you get to see Vienna?”

          John smiled a touch wistfully, “Sherlock isn’t one for holidays, you know that.”

          “You can convince him of a great many things, John…he puts a lot of stock in your opinion.”

          John’s brows rose, “Does he now?” Muttered, “Not so’s I’d ever notice…”

          “Oh come on, surely you have? He looks to you for cues on appropriate behaviour—and when has he ever cared what anyone else had to say? Sherlock is also more liable to eat something if you mention it; and you told me yourself that he’s been sleeping more normal hours.”

          The look on John’s face, somewhere between hopeful, skeptical and touched, made Molly sigh inwardly. Suddenly she could see what Meena meant…it looked like John did have feelings for Sherlock. “He is eating meals with us more, and he’s taken to napping when Rosie does.” John’s expression caused a swelling of tenderness in Molly, “He, uh, he likes to hold her while she sleeps, and then he falls asleep.” What might possibly have been a blush on any other man warmed his face, and he tugged his phone out of his pocket, “Look…” flicking through the pictures John turned the phone so Molly could see. Sherlock was asleep in John’s chair, head thrown back, lanky legs crossed at the ankle, and his long arms securely wrapped around Rosie.

          It was clear that John’s daughter belonged in Sherlock’s arms. Molly was becoming convinced that John did too.

 

******

 

          “Leave it alone, Molly.”

          Biting back sharp words, Molly sighed, and finally said carefully, “Look, Greg, I’m not going to convince Sherlock to do anything he’s uncomfortable with—I mean, c’mon, that wouldn’t be likely anyway—but he’s my friend and he made a point of being open with me. So I just want to let him know that if he has anything he wants to talk to me about, I’m there for him.”

          Greg’s tone was a shade too sarcastic, “And if that just happens to be John-related you won’t want to stick you little oar in and arrange some kind of declaration of love between them?”

          Molly hoped her face didn’t give anything away; she had sort of, kind of, accidentally on purpose not mentioned to her boyfriend that she had tried to set the scene for just that. Of course, since Greg was a very good detective he read her face and groaned, “Oh God, you’ve already messed about with it, haven’t you?”

          “Possibly. All I did was tell John they should take a few personal days in Vienna! I didn’t tell him Sherlock was in love with him or anything.”

          “You are a menace.” Greg shook his head, “Maybe the two of them are happy as they are, did you ever think of that? It could be that the reason neither one of them has said anything to the other is that they know it would be too complicated. Sherlock doesn’t do relationships…he might figure that it’s less potential for misunderstanding or heartbreak if he keeps them on friendly footing. Or maybe John has feelings for Sherlock and isn’t prepared to face the fact that he’s bi.”

          “Well when you put it like that…” Molly nibbled nervously on the end of her braid, “I guess I should leave it alone.”

          “Yes. Yes, that sounds like a perfect plan. Just leave it alone and let them live their lives as they see fit. That’s all any of us can do, Molly, figure it out for ourselves and try to do no harm.”

          She kissed him and sat on his lap, loving it that his arms came around her automatically, and that his kiss was every bit as wonderful as the first time. Snuggling her head against his neck she sighed, “I just want everyone to be as happy as we are; and I feel like Sherlock and John especially could use some happiness.”

          “Maybe they _are_ happy, just as they are.” Greg slid the elastic off the end of her braid and combed his fingers through her hair, smoothing it over her shoulders. “If they come to us for advice or a friendly ear, we can be there for them.”

          “Highly unsatisfactory.”

         

******

 

          “If I didn’t know better, Molly, I’d say you were following me.”

          “Ha, ha. Yes, wouldn’t that be funny?”

          “I didn’t offer an opinion as to its comedic worth. I believe I said—oh never mind. What’s wrong, Hooper?”

          “Who says anything has to be wrong?”

          “Your expression of innocence wouldn’t fool Anderson.”

          “Honestly, I’m not following you. I just keep finding myself in your presence.”

          “On purpose?”

          “Well…”

          Sherlock’s look of triumphant amusement made her laugh, and Molly gave in. “I really wasn’t following you, not exactly. I was just creating opportunities.”

          He looked interested, “Opportunity for what, exactly?”

          Following a bit of hemming and hawing, Molly finally blurted out that she was just giving him the opportunity to share.

          “Share what?”

          “Your…feelings.” Well now, that sounded silly, didn’t it? Of course, Sherlock Holmes _had_ feelings; Molly knew for herself that he did. It was only, well, he was usually silent about them (unless they were feelings of displeasure) and he usually mocked them in others (although not as much in recent years). Sure enough, he looked quite blank.

          “Never mind,” Molly said nervously, trying for a carefree chuckle as she backed away from the lab station where he was set up. Of course, being Molly, she sounded nervous and guilty as hell, and she managed to knock over a tray of samples and create a dreadful mess. In the resulting confusion the matter was dropped. She decided it was for the best.

          Who was she to press either of them on the situation? Okay, so Sherlock’s burial of inconvenient emotions wasn’t healthy or practical; and John and Sherlock living together and dancing around an attraction wasn’t a recipe for success. But Molly was no therapist, and there was a so much history between the two men, tangled up in lies and sacrifice and loss and damage and mistakes…Greg was right: it was up to them to handle their affairs as best they could. She was staying out of it.

          Which might have worked if she hadn’t intrigued Sherlock.

 

******

 

          “Hello!” Molly stepped in the open door of the boy’s flat, “Sherlock, are you here? I brought that liver you asked for.”

          A series of muffled curses greeted her, and Molly set down the biohazard cooler and backed toward the door. She was no dummy. It was entirely possible that there was someone unauthorized in the building, and given the recent past, she was prepared to hotfoot it out the door and down the stairs. The familiar sound of Sherlock’s voice stopped her in her tracks and when he raised his voice and asked her to come to his bedroom she complied.

          “Oh!” Molly stopped, amazed at the sight that greeted her; she blushed bright red. “Sherlock…” She gurgled and tried desperately not to laugh. “Are you alright?” She managed to squeak out.

          He glared at her between his legs, “No, I’m not. I think any idiot could see that. Don’t just stand there and gawp, release me!”

          He was clothed, although he was stripped down to his pants, vest and socks, but he was rather neatly trussed with a series of ropes.

          “Is there someone here?” Molly asked, realizing that he might have been overpowered and tied up. Although if that were the case, then the intruders were mighty inventive with a knot…

          Scowling blackly, Sherlock raised his head again and pinned her with a glare, “If there were someone here I would have asked them for help already,” he spoke through gritted teeth.

          “How on earth did you get in this position?” Molly asked, beginning to release him.

          “John, of course.”

          Molly’s fingers fumbled, “Oh really?”

          “Yes, of course. He assists me in all of my investigations.”

          “And you were…investigating?”

          “Yes…we have a most interesting case. A man was found trussed in a locked room, dead of a heart attack. I’m trying to discover if one can get in this configuration unaided, and if it was a simple case of autoerotica gone wrong, or if it was murder. John was assisting me, but when I chanced a remark on his ability at knotting a rope he got stroppy and left.”

          Molly counseled herself that to laugh would be momentarily satisfying but ultimately would alienate Sherlock too much. God but he was lucky she had walked in, not Greg or Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft. Greg would have stopped to film it, Mrs. Hudson would have laughed herself to death and Mycroft probably would have left him.

          “There you are!” Molly released the last restraint and began rubbing his limbs, helping to restore circulation. “John didn’t do too badly, but he got a bit tight on some of those ropes. Much longer and you could have ended up with circulatory damage. If you’re going to do this again, don’t anger the person tying you up. Or at least ask for help from someone who knows what they’re doing.”

          Sherlock looked at her with a mixed expression of amazement, shock and curiosity. “Molly Hooper. I’m not often surprised, but you have managed it today.” He stood up unsteadily and waved away her offer of help. Finding that he was unable to stand and put on his trousers, Sherlock sank back to the bed and managed to get them on. “Does Greg know you’re into bondage?”

          “Who do you think helps me with my knots?” Molly asked roguishly, and giggled when Sherlock actually blushed.

          Once he was dressed Sherlock led the way to the lounge and walked about, flexing and stretching.

          “It was an interesting experience,” Sherlock said eventually, when Molly returned from putting the liver in the designated lab refrigerator he had installed when John and Rosie moved into 221B. “I didn’t dislike it, at first. But I’m not fond of being restricted.”

          “It’s not everyone’s cup of tea,” Molly admitted, “But when done right, with someone you trust, it can be…wonderful.” Fighting her own blush, she avoided his eyes, “I personally don’t like ropes, they’re too rough, and doing it for too long has its own discomforts and dangers.”

          “I don’t find it sexually arousing,” Sherlock said quickly. “Just…interesting. Data, you know.”

          “It doesn’t have to be sexual,” Molly told him, meeting his eyes this time. “Some people find it comforting; some people want to relinquish control and yet they are in charge, because their partner is to remain with them at all times.”

          “Hmm.”

          “Maybe if you wanted to try it again, you could ask John nicely, and refrain from telling him off. Then he could stay with you.” Molly was watching his face closely and she thought there might have been a bit of a change in expression when she mentioned John. “The two of you are very close, I think he would do it for you.” Molly met his eyes, “I think there isn’t much he wouldn’t do for you.”

          There was no mistaking it that time, there was a sort of yearning look on his face. Brief, and quickly hidden, but it was real. Molly went into the kitchen, “I’m going to make some tea,” she called back over her shoulder. When she came back, Sherlock was practically laying on his long back in his chair, his chin propped on his entwined fingers.

          After putting a cup of tea next to him Molly sank into John’s chair and sipped her own drink. She was used to Sherlock’s long silences.

          “You’re trying to hint that there’s more than a friendly feeling between John and myself,” Sherlock said suddenly. He looked up and brushed his knuckle back and forth over his lips. “There’s no basis for that. Just because we’re two men and we live together—“

          “Don’t be ridiculous,” Molly sighed, “This isn’t some program on the television Sherlock. It’s not that simple. I’m suggesting that there’s something there, because I think there might be.” She sat down her teacup and sat up straight, feeling anxious, “I think you feel something more than friendship for John.”

          “He—I—of course I do, we’ve endured much together. John is—“ Sherlock bit his words off and looked at her, and the expression in his eyes made her want to hug him. “There’s no use talking about it. John is…straight and widowed and very much just my friend and I don’t do relationships and I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

          His agitation was clear, and Molly backed off. “You don’t have to talk to me about it, Sherlock. The only person you should talk to is John. And that’s only if you want to do so.” Picking her tea back up she gave him an encouraging smile, “It’s your business…just, well, I wanted you to know, if you ever do need to talk to me about it…I’m here.”

 

******

 

 

          They ended up drinking two more cups of tea and finishing the biscuit barrel while Molly explained light bondage to Sherlock. John came back to find Sherlock on his stomach on the floor, with Molly tying him up with the unused ties he was always being given by grateful clients.

          John stopped short and looked from Sherlock to Molly; from Molly to the ties; from the ties to Sherlock. “Christ.” He stomped out of the room and they heard his bedroom door slam.

 

******

 

          “You look tired,” Sheila left Anthony’s bedroom door cracked and curled up on the sofa, smiling at Philip. “Too much for you?”

          “Tough audience,” he told her, “I could feel the flop sweat forming.”

          She laughed and he joined her, and they both looked guiltily over their shoulders at the strip of lamplight shining around Anthony’s door. Sheila dropped her voice, “It might take him some time to warm up to you.”

          “I’m not in a hurry,” Philip said. “I’m used to being disliked.”

          Her smile made his chest expand with a surge of tenderness and happiness, “I find that hard to believe.”

          Oh God, he was in real danger of falling in love with her. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were just the two of them, consenting adults used to relationships ending. But they had to consider Anthony; he was just a boy, and he was his mum’s top priority. And so, in the bounds of this relationship was he for Philip. He’d have no chance at all with Sheila if Anthony didn’t like him.

          He rubbed his nose, “I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to buy his affections…but is there something I could do that would sort of, you know, break the ice?” He brightened, “Does he like comic books? I know he’s a bit young, but I have a great collection, and I saved all the ones from when I was small. You could look at them and see if you thought they would be suitable?”

          “That’s a lovely idea, Philip, but as far as I know Anthony’s never read a comic book. He can read on his own, fairly simple stuff, and he might like the bright drawings. As long as you’re not worried he might rip them or wrinkle the pages.”

          “Naw, I wouldn’t bring any of the collector’s items. Maybe I can bring some next time I come over.” He paused, “Or maybe the two of you would like to come to my place for lunch one weekend? I’m not far from Hyde Park, and we could take a walk if the weather’s nice. I’m not a great cook like you, but I do a decent spaghetti.”

          It was nice, to think that he would cook for her, and really sweet that he thought she was a great cook. Clearly he didn’t recognize frozen casserole when it was offered to him. “It’s a date.”

 

******

 

          John was behaving in a peculiar manner.

          Normally, Sherlock could easily deduce what was wrong with him; after all, they had known one another for years, been through hell _and_ high water together. John was the person, the one person in the world that he knew he could depend on without fail.

          It was a simple matter, most of the time, to track his moods, and easy to know to what he could attribute them.

          Now, however, he had Sherlock puzzled.

          First he had gotten flustered when he asked him to tie him up (shame and modesty were _so_ pedestrian), but when Sherlock had pointed out that it was for a case, John had complied.

          Then he had gotten mad over a mere comment on his ability to tie a knot, and not only had he left him in a most uncomfortable position, but upon his return he had seemed even more annoyed. Although perhaps that was understandable; Molly was quite good at bondage. Surprising, that. The things one learned about one’s friends.

          Rosie was spending the week with John’s cousin and his wife, Stella and Ted, who were a childless couple who had been very eager to spend time with Watson. Watson was quite delightful in many ways, but Sherlock would wager that just about now Stella and Ted’s enthusiasm was waning. He’d seen the inside of their house, it was pristine. Or rather, it probably had been until a certain young lady arrived.

          Sherlock had, much to his surprise, mostly enjoyed having the tiny addition to their home, even if her presence often curtailed a lot of fun. John was chary with lending his daughter for experiments, the amount of cleaning and labeling of experiments that was now required was boring, and Sherlock was no longer allowed to discharge firearms in the confines of the house. But Rosie Watson was undeniably a charming child, and because she was John’s, Sherlock was more than willing to accept her as part of the package if it meant he got John.

          Who was purely his friend and blogger. Partner, upon occasion, when a case called for it. Flatmate, undeniably, as they shared chores and expenses. Well, Sherlock footed the bill for the household and John did most of the grunt work, but it was a pleasant arrangement.

          John was not anything more to Sherlock than that. There was too much…just “too much” between them, too much past…dirty, tangled history of betrayal and loss and…well, they were friends.

          This made it all the more confusing when John finally emerged from his room and deigned to come downstairs. Sherlock was idly plucking at his violin and mentally reviewing the notes of the case that he had assembled thus far. He barely glanced up when John entered the room. He did take notice, however, when the other man marched up to him and glared down at him, hands on hips.

          “Right. Sherlock, this has to stop!”

          “Music helps me think. You won’t let me smoke in the flat, so music it is.”

          “Not that.” John heaved a disgusted sigh, “Sometimes I think you’re being deliberately dense, just to wind me up.”

          Sherlock regarded him politely. “What is the point, John?”

          “The point is you cannot do this. Molly and Greg are happy and it’s wrong of you to drag her into your cases and your nonsense.”

          Sherlock was legitimately confused, “I haven’t dragged her into anything. She offered to show me some proper knots and I accepted. I’m not sure what that has to do with Lestrade.”

          “Molly had a crush on you for years, and now that she’s happy you can’t go cocking it up.” John dropped his head back and groaned, “Jesus, why do I have to explain the simplest things to you?”

          Sherlock put down his violin and stood up, chin in the air, “I’m not “cocking up” anything, John. Molly and I are just friends. There was nothing sexual between us today. You abandoned me and she kindly came to my rescue and then proceeded to show me some other methods. I don’t see what has you upset.”

          John grabbed the lapels of Sherlock’s jacket and shook him a little, “I’m upset because you don’t need Molly. If anyone’s going to tie you up, it’ll be _me_.”

          Sherlock’s eyes were in danger of crossing John’s face was so close. It was remarkable, he had been quite close to Molly earlier, and yet his heart hadn’t been beating this quickly. Why should John have this effect on him? Why was it only John whom he—

          “Sod it,” John hauled Sherlock flush against his chest and kissed him.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has a hard time hearing about Molly and Sherlock when she confesses. Molly is unable to resist getting involved in John and Sherlock's personal business when she and John have lunch, and John shares some of his personal past as well as some surprising revelations. Sherlock and Mycroft snip at one another.

           Greg had no sooner come through the door than Molly bounced into his arms and kissed him deeply. He hugged her to him and kissed her back. This was a much better greeting than he usually received on a Monday; not that he could fault Molly for her enthusiasm as she normally worked Mondays as well.

          “Well hello to you too, pussycat.” Hands under her bum, Greg walked across the sitting room, Molly’s arms still draped around his neck, and propped himself against the back of the sofa. Hitching her legs up on either side of him, Greg kissed her again, and buried his face in her neck, inhaling her smell. “Mm, I could get used to coming home to this every day.”

          “That tickles!” Molly giggled when he brushed the sensitive skin of her neck with his stubbled chin, so he did it again and smiled at the sound of her laughter.

          “That’s the point,” he laughed, and did it again. After a few minutes of tussling he eased back and smiled at her, feeling lighthearted. “I take it you had a good day?”

          “Mmhmm…” her eyes slid away from him and her small hands fluttered before she clasped them around his neck once more.

          There was definitely something bothering her. Greg was straight forward; he liked to tackle problems, solve them and move on. So it was out of character for him to feel reluctant to ask his girlfriend what was wrong. But it was also out of character for her to be this nervous and evasive around him. They were comfortable enough now that Molly didn’t usually hesitate to tell him what she was thinking.

          Reluctantly he tapped her jaw lightly with two fingers, met her eyes. “What’s wrong, Molly?”

          Her shaky inhalation made the bottom of his stomach drop. “It isn’t anything bad, not really…it’s just going to _sound_ that way.” Molly widened her eyes, “Really, it’s pretty funny if you think about it—“

          “Christ, Molly, what is it?”

          “Sherlock and I had tea and I tied him up.”

          Greg blinked in confusion. “Come again?”

          Molly worried her lower lip between her teeth, “I went over this afternoon to deliver the bits that Sherlock asked for and I found him alone in the apartment, trussed like a Christmas goose.” A bit of laughter lightened her expression, “Apparently it was for a case, only he annoyed John and was stuck like that. So I untied him and we had a chat, and I ended up showing him some different positions and restraints—purely professional! I mean, it wasn’t sexual or anything.” She looked nervously at him, trying to judge his closed expression, “And then John came back and stomped off in a jealous strop.”

          He could feel his hands on her hips, her warm fingers cradling the back of his neck, the hard frame of the sofa pressing the back of his thighs, the urge to laugh warring with the instinctive jealousy. _She’s not Karen_ , he reminded himself _, she’s not Karen and she wouldn’t do that. Not Molly, she’s in love with_ me _, she’s the most honest person I know._

          “Greg?” Molly’s voice was anxious, and he wanted to reassure her, but at the moment he was tamping down the desire to lose his temper. It was ridiculous; there was no reason for him to be jealous. Only he was. “Greg?”

          Catching her hand in his, Greg kissed it, finally looked into her anxious brown eyes that he loved so dearly and exhaled with slow deliberation. “I’m fine. It’s fine.” He kissed her, pressed his forehead to hers. “It was…bad…there for a minute. Old jealousies, old fears.”

          Molly moved her head, peeped at him, “You know I would never betray you, don’t you Greg? I love you so much! You are,” her voice wobbled, “you are everything to me.” Digging her fingers into the back of his hair, she sucked in a breath and spoke rather fiercely, “Nothing and no one is going to change that.”

          “I feel the same way, baby, but…God, sometimes I get this feeling of panic at the thought of losing you. And when you tell me things like that, intellectually I know you’re faithful…but then I have twenty years of Karen’s infidelities haunting me.”

          Hugging him tightly, Molly murmured endearments and assurances, and Greg held her just as tightly and drank in the welcome feeling of Molly in his arms. He had held on to his temper, so that was a win. But, Christ, his first instinct had been to start yelling accusations, which was bad. Really bad. Karen was his past, and he needed to leave all that negative shit in his past as well. Molly had come to him honestly and told him what was going on, she hadn’t tried to hide it or lie, even though she had known he would be upset.

          If he wasn’t careful, if he kept letting his past dictate his present…well, he could drive Molly away, lose her forever. And he’d be damned if he let that happen.

 

******

 

          “Hi, John!”

          “Hey, Molly,” a bit of a pause, then John spoke briskly, “I just wanted to let you know, I won’t need you to watch Rosie for me next month.”

          “Oh? Did you make other arrangements?”

          “Erm, no. Sherlock decided he didn’t need me there, so I’ll be staying home. But I really appreciate it. I hope it hasn’t messed you up too badly, taking time off and all.” John chuckled dryly, “Maybe Rosie and I can take you out to lunch, since we put you to the inconvenience.”

          “It’s fine, John, really. I’m sure it’s not too late for me to let Mike know. I’d love to have lunch with the two of you, however!” Molly picked at a ragged cuticle, wondering furiously why Sherlock had changed his mind.

          They set a date for later that week and Molly went back to work, wondering what was behind Sherlock’s change of mind. She wondered guiltily if it had anything to do with her meddling. Greg would be full of I-told-you-so if that was the case.

 

******

 

          Molly didn’t tell Greg about her conversation with John, about the change of plans, although she did mention that she and John were having lunch with her god-daughter. She failed to mention to Mike Stamford, any of the four times she ran into him that she wouldn’t need her time off. No need to rush into anything, Molly decided. Let her talk to John first, and find out just what had spurred this sudden change of plans.

          They met at a small café with outdoor tables, so they could sit outside and enjoy the sunshine. It was a lovely day and Molly unbuttoned the top buttons of her butterfly cardigan and the top button of her striped blouse, tilting her head back and letting the sun warm her face. She was early, and had secured them an excellent table and a high chair for Rosie; she sat sipping her lemonade while she waited.

          John showed up a bit late, breathless from hurrying, Rosie in her pushchair babbling and waving her arms when she caught sight of her Aunt Molly. “Sorry we’re late!” John apologized, parking the pushchair just outside the railing, and unbuckling his daughter. “I’m going to order our drinks on the way through.”

          He joined her a few minutes later and Molly stood up to hug him and immediately held out her arms for her god-daughter. The two beamed happily at one another, and Molly laughed when Rosie grabbed handfuls of her hair and pulled her toward her open mouth. Rosie sucked on her chin, her version of a kiss, and bounced in Molly’s arms.

          “I’m delighted to see you too, little one!” Molly sat down and held Rosie on her lap, keeping a good grip on her, as the little girl was a whirlwind of energy.

          “Did you say hello to Aunt Molly?” John reached out and straightened the collar of Rosie’s dress and smoothed her curls.

          “Hi Aunt Mowwy,” Rosie greeted her solemnly, and then broke into a smile, showing off her tiny pearly whites.

          “Her upper first molars just started coming through,” John said, handing a carrot stick to Rosie, who began to gnaw delicately on it. “She’s been pretty good about it, but there have been some days and nights of screaming…I think Mrs. Turner’s married ones probably wish we’d go back to the explosions and shooting off guns.”

          Molly laughed, and sat the little girl in the high chair while John took the whole milk the waiter brought, pouring it into the sippy cup he pulled from Rosie’s bag. Screwing the lid on tightly, he sat it on the highchair tray and Rosie took the handles in both hands, bringing it to her mouth and taking a greedy swallow.

          “Oh I have missed you!” Molly said, leaning down to meet Rosie’s eyes, “I’ve let myself get too busy. You and I must have a day together soon, okay?”

          “O-kay,” Rosie agreed, drawing out the “O” and nodding emphatically. John and Molly both laughed at her seriousness, and Rosie looked from one to the other, beaming at making her people laugh.

          “I’m sorry if I haven’t brought her around enough,” John began, “Life’s been crazy lately.”

          “Oh John, nonsense, don’t apologize! My life is hectic enough, and I’m not trying to raise a child alone!”

          “I’m not alone,” John contested, “I’ve got Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, and Harry, and Ted and Stella and you and Greg. And two of the nurses at the clinic love to watch Rosie, bless them.”

          “How is Harry?” Molly asked, even though what she wanted to ask was how Sherlock was and just why was John suddenly not going to Vienna?

          “She’s doing alright, she’s been off the bottle for a few years now, and she and her girlfriend Kate are pretty solid.” John pulled out a container and put a handful of peanut butter crackers on the tray, and added some apple slices. Their waiter returned and Molly ordered soup and salad while John asked for pasta carbonara for himself and a child’s portion of spaghetti for Rosie.

          “Oh Lord, you’re brave!” Molly teased. “If I’d have known, I’d have brought my rain jacket.”

          A smile leavened the serious look on John’s face, and Molly reflected on what an attractive man he was when he wasn’t worn down by worry. And something was worrying him; she was sure it had to do with Sherlock.

          “I’m glad you have so many people you can depend on,” Molly commented casually, touching back on the subject they had been discussing before the waiter came. “I know Mary would be glad to know that Rosie has plenty of family. She told me once that it was the nicest thing about being an orphan, making family out of friends.”

          A shadow passed over John’s face, but then he smiled, “Yes, she was really pleased to become a part of our circle.” He sipped his mineral water, and studied the wet coaster underneath. “I think that was part of the reason she liked you so much, Molly, because you understood having no family.”

          “I’d like to think we had one or two things in common, for all we were so different.” Molly spoke with conscious lightness, “Mary was lovely, but she didn’t tell me much about herself, her past I mean. We mostly talked about work, and telly , and clothes, and you and Sherlock.”

          Rosie demanded attention, and they spent some time listening to her garbled tale, which John had to interpret for Molly. Finally she ran out of things to say about her visit to the Zoo, and crammed a cracker in her mouth.

          “Sherlock was ridiculously patient with her,” John told Molly, “I was honestly surprised. We spent hours at the Zoo and he didn’t act bored once. I think he had as much fun as she did.”

          Molly smiled, “From what he’s said, I think he likes having her around.”

          “I hope so,” John mumbled, “Now that I’ve let the flat go and moved back in with him I’m not sure I could handle another move. And Rosie needs some stability, don’t you sweetheart?”

          “You’ve had a lot of changes in the last year or so,” Molly said comfortingly, “Are you still in therapy? I’m sure it helps to talk about all the upheaval.”

          “Yeah, I am. I stopped for a long time, but after Mary, and Culverton Smith, and Sherrinford, Christ, I could hardly sleep at night.” John sat back as the waiter arrived, and he efficiently began to cut up Rosie’s spaghetti. She reached for it, whinging demandingly, but he firmly told her to wait until it was cool enough. She scowled mutinously, and swatted at his arm and demanded, “More!” very imperiously.

          “Sometimes we have to wait for things we want,” John scolded, moving the plate to the other side of the table. She pouted, and threw a carrot stick on the ground. “Lord, what a drama queen,” John sighed, “You’re as bad as Sherlock.”

          Molly giggled and he grinned, “It’s true, he is.”

          “Oh I agree!”

          They settled into their meals, but after a few minutes John brought the conversation back around to therapy, admitting that he had gone back to his old therapist. “It’s helped a lot, with the grief and guilt. But I don’t know, sometimes I think, why do I go and talk to her and expect things to change?”

          Molly considered her words with care, “What things to you want to change?”

          John met her eyes, looked away and then looked back. Twin spots burned on his cheeks but finally he stumbled out, “What…what’s going on with you and Sherlock?”

          Molly blinked, surprised, and then gave him a half smile, “I was going to ask _you_ that.”

          His face grew redder, and he swallowed visibly, “What do you mean?”

          “There’s nothing going on between me and Sherlock,” Molly answered, “What you walked in on the other day was just me satisfying his curiosity.” She paused and gathered her courage, “I think if you want to know what satisfies him sexually, well, you’d be the best one to find the answer to that.” Now they were both blushing.

          John began and abandoned several sentences, tried out a few openings, sat his fork down. Picked it up. Sat it down again. “Jesus,” he finally groaned, “is it that obvious?”

          “His attraction to you?” Molly asked carefully, “Or your attraction to him?”

          Balling his serviette up in his hands, John muttered a curse, and then cast a shame-faced glance at his daughter. She was occupied in trying to get noodles on her spoon, however, and was paying them no mind. Meeting Molly’s eyes let her see his misery, “There is no attraction on his part. I…I thought, sometimes, that there was. Or I guess you could say, I hoped it. Only I didn’t hope it, not in the last few years.”

          “Why not?” Molly was gentle, even though she had a pretty good idea, which was confirmed when John sighed Mary’s name.

          “I loved her. God, I did. And she saved me; saved me from myself, from my misery and loneliness and depression when I thought Sherlock was dead.” John blinked and looked away, staring sightlessly at the traffic. “I’m not…I haven’t ever…not with any man. My dad…” Unable to finish his sentence, he looked miserable and ashamed, and Molly abandoned her food and impulsively grabbed his hand.

          When he looked at her, Molly smiled as encouragingly as she could, “John, you don’t have to tell me anything. But if you do, I’ll listen and I won’t judge and I’ll keep it mum.” He nodded jerkily, and glanced around, seeming relieved that no one was seated within ear-shot.

          “I never understood how Harry could be so brave,” John began haltingly, “our dad was very old-fashioned, and he wasn’t shy about using his fists. Harry seemed to almost enjoy defying him. She left home when she was sixteen and I was eleven…”

          The waiter came toward them but Molly flicked him a glare and he retreated.

          “I saw what it was like for her, defying him, taking a hiding when he thought she’d gone too far. She didn’t leave so much as escape; and our mum would go to see her from time to time, at whatever friend’s house she was bunking at.” John looked at Rosie, “I don’t understand, how my parents, how they could do that. Just abandon one kid? Because she loved women?” He unconsciously gripped Molly’s hand too tightly, but she squeezed back comfortingly, and he continued. “Despite our disagreements over her drinking, and the way she treated Clara…Harry is my big sister, and I love her. I’m incredibly proud of what she’s accomplished. Christ, she left school, left home, slept on people’s couches for years…and look at her now.”

          “And what about you?”

          “Me? I was a coward. I kept my head down, dated girls, finished school, went to uni.” John shook his head, “I had feelings, you know, like crushes, from time to time, on boys at school. And in uni…I almost did something about it. But I remembered my dad and how he cut Harry off. I didn’t want that.” He looked at her, expression wry, eyes haunted by old memories, “Tell me, how can you hate someone and want their approval at the same time?”

          Molly shook her head helplessly, and he continued, explaining that he was attracted to men as well as women, but had never been with a man, never even kissed one before. “Then the other day…”

          The waiter hovered a few tables away and Molly waved him over, “Two whiskies, make them doubles, and your most decadent dessert please.” When he was gone she moved to the chair next to John, “What happened?”

          “After I walked in on the two of you the other day, I sat up in my room and just…God, I sulked and fumed and cursed myself because I figured I had lost my chance. Also, I was really mad at you for doing that to Greg.”

          “It wasn’t—“

          John summoned a smile, “I get it. Now. At the time I was a little distracted by rage and disappointment.”

          “Do you _want_ to be with Sherlock, John?”

          Looking slightly apprehensive, their waiter returned, setting the whiskies down in front of them and putting a plate with a giant piece of chocolate cake in the center of the table. “Shall I clear your plates?”

          “Not now, thanks.”

          After he had left John glanced at her, “He probably thinks we’re a couple having a difficult marriage.”

          “Nonsense, you and I would have a lovely marriage. It’d be so lovely we’d both die of boredom.” That earned her a laugh, and John leaned in and kissed her cheek, declaring he knew just why Greg adored her.

          “Quit trying to distract me.”

          “Damn. Yes, Molly, I do. I’ve wanted him for a long, long time. I spent the first couple of years denying we were a couple, and petrified at the idea of admitting I was attracted to a man.” John’s lips twisted, “Which is incredibly dumb, if you think about it. I mean, I have no problem with other people being gay, but for some reason, the idea of admitting I was feeling something for Sherlock…it terrified me.”

          “To be fair, he’s not exactly the most receptive person when it comes to relationships.”

          “True. I—it got to the point that I was almost ready to say something, just to get it off my chest. But then came all that horror with Moriarity, and then Sherlock’s jump.” His face twisted with remembered sorrow and Molly sent up a prayer to whoever might be listening that one day she wouldn’t feel a flood of guilt for her part in the whole affair.

          “It made it even worse,” he confided, “I’d lost my chance…he’d died, thinking everyone viewed him as a fraud, convinced no one would stand up for him.” Hard-fought tears threatened, and John sucked in a sharp breath, fighting for composure. “God, I’d beat myself up, thinking about how maybe he wouldn’t have jumped if I’d just been courageous enough to fucking tell him how I felt. If he’d known that one person loved him and believed in him.”

          Unable to stop herself, Molly started crying, and John hugged her; they rocked one another, fighting the million swirling emotions that always accompanied thoughts of that dark time. Rosie started crying as well, and they broke apart with wet laughs. “Look at you,” John said in a thick voice reaching for his daughter, “You’re covered in sauce!”

          After cleaning her up he popped her on his lap and kissed her head, “Don’t worry, poppet. Daddy’s okay. Aunt Molly is too.” Rosie rubbed her eyes and burrowed into his chest, sniffling.

          John rocked her and thankfully accepted the whiskey Molly passed him. They sipped in silence, composing themselves.

          “I’m sorry,” John began, “I didn’t mean to get this heavy, and in public too.”

          Molly waved her hand, “John, it’s fine. You don’t have to apologize to me. I’m really honored you’ve been so open with me. And it’s partly my fault. I keep poking at this and Greg told me to keep out of it.”

          John froze, “Greg knows?”

          “Um, yes?” Molly bit her lip and fiddled with the cake fork she had just picked up, “I mean he knows I think there’s something between the two of you.”

          “Oh.” John’s inflection was slightly questioning, and Molly took pity on him.

          “He doesn’t care if that’s what you’re thinking. Greg’s best mate is gay, you know. I think he was honestly more stunned to think of Sherlock as having any sexual feelings, than he was to consider that you might be bisexual.”

          John relaxed visibly, but then a look of disgust passed over his face, “Why? Why do I care what other people think?”

          “It’s just human nature!” Molly dug into the cake, “That’s what keeps civilization functioning, those worries about what other people think. It should stop you from murdering Sherlock, John, not from loving him.”

          He started laughing at her matter-of-fact tone. “Molly Hooper. You are a treasure.”

          She beamed at him, “That’s what Greg says!”

 

******

 

          Both John and Rosie ended up coming home with Molly, and when Greg came home from work the four of them ordered in and spent hours talking. It took a while for John to relax around Greg, but eventually he admitted that seeing Molly and Sherlock together that day had pushed him to his limit.

          “I ended up kissing him,” John started, but was drowned out by Molly’s squeal and Greg’s, “About time, mate!”

          He blushed, but began to laugh. “I take it I’ve been too slow a starter?”

          Greg grinned at him, “I admit I haven’t considered the two of you as a couple for long—but I suspected once or twice in the old days that you might have a thing for old long shanks.”

          Burying his red face in his hands, John groaned, “Jesus, and I thought I was so subtle.”

          Eventually he loosened up and admitted that upon Sherlock’s stunning and miraculous return from the dead, he’d been torn about what to do. Being in love with two people had been difficult, but John had decided that his honour demanded he keep his commitment to Mary—a decision helped along by Sherlock in general being a dick about keeping his death secret for two years, and in specific because Sherlock had acted as if John’s serious relationship with a woman hadn’t phased him at all.

          “And it probably didn’t,” John said gloomily. “I kissed him the other day and he freaked out. He told me he was married to his work and I was changing the nature of our friendship and then he left and didn’t come home for fourteen hours.” When he had, he had coldly informed John that he was going to Vienna alone.

          “So you see,” John said, trying and failing to sound unaffected, “My kiss was unwelcome and now he’s basically ignoring me and if things go south I’m screwed because I have nowhere to move.”

          “You can—“ Greg started, but was drowned out by Molly, who asserted that John was being ridiculous. “Talk to him, John. It’s Sherlock, he’s hopeless with normal human emotions, do you really believe you could kiss him and he wouldn’t freak out?”

          John looked thoughtful, and after a while the subject turned to more general topics.

          “Oh God,” Molly said to Greg as they waved off the cab carrying John and Rosie home, “I hope this all works out.”

         

******

 

          Sherlock was pacing the flat restlessly; John had been gone for hours, Rosie too, and he was beginning to worry. Perhaps he had been too harsh with John? Surely he wasn’t out looking for a new flat? He couldn’t possibly be going to move, could he? No, that was nonsense. John belonged at 221B.

          When he heard an engine idling downstairs, and the sound of a car door, Sherlock peered out the window. John was standing next to a cab, maneuvering Rosie’s pushchair out of the boot, while holding her sleeping form against his chest. The sight of him eased something in Sherlock’s chest, and he wished desperately that John hadn’t done what he had done. Why did things need to change? They were fine as they were. Weren’t they?

          He had his work, and his projects and his music; and John had his work and Rosie and his blog. They lived mostly in harmony, he was very understanding about having a toddler in the house. Things were fine. It was unreasonable of John to suddenly try and flip everything on its head by kissing him.

          Sherlock’s memory danced away from the kiss (he had debated deleting it but had hesitated and now it was firmly lodged in John’s room in his Mind Palace but kept messily spilling out). Briefly, before his mind kicked in and took over, Sherlock had enjoyed the kiss. Enjoyed was too tame a word, but he didn’t know a better one. There was no need to get hyperbolic. Sufficient to say that John’s kiss had stirred him in ways his playacting with Janine had not.    

          But he was asexual and that reaction was just an aberration. It was most likely not enjoyment; rather call it confusion, or surprise. Yes, he had been surprised that John was acting on—oh damn and blast. That was a lie. _At least be honest with yourself,_ Sherlock thought; John’s kiss had been glorious.

          Not that John needed to know that. Nothing must encourage him to do it again. Sherlock wasn’t the sort of person who could have a successful relationship. He was messy and complicated and rude and impatient and an addict and not the sort to ever do anything normally and eventually John would get tired of his antics and the danger that accompanied him and he’d realize that Sherlock was too much trouble, too much worry and he’d leave, he’d leave and Sherlock would be alone. So alone, alone, alone, just like before, before John, and after John too, when he was dead. As alone as Eurus, entombed on an island, trapped in his own mind, alone, in the cold dark lonely—

          “Sherlock?”

          Jerking back from the dark well of his own thoughts, Sherlock realized he was still standing next to the window, his hand betraying him by holding back the curtains. It must be clear he had been waiting, waiting on John to come back. Pining at the window like some lovesick princess in a fairytale.

          “Sherlock?” Now John sounded concerned.

          “Did you bring milk?” That hadn’t been what he planned on saying, but perhaps deflection was best.

          “I—what? No, I didn’t bring milk.”

          “We’re out.” Sherlock turned his back on John and lay on the sofa, his back to the room.

          “Oh.” John shifted from foot to foot, “We’ll have to do without, and I’ve got a shift tomorrow.” A muttered, “Or you could go to the shops.”

          Sherlock ignored him, lying stiffly until he heard John sigh and mount the stairs. Things would settle back down to normal soon. They must. He…needed John.

          Not like that.

          _No?_

******

 

          “Uhhhnnn…” Greg gave up trying to talk, as he sounded like he was having a stroke. Deciding that Molly knew just how much he was enjoying her ministrations, he relaxed into the pillow and groaned as another wave of pleasure crested over him.

          His devilish girlfriend’s warm brown eyes were alight with glee and sexual hunger as she knelt over him, kissing his slack mouth. Greg managed to pull himself together enough to kiss her back, but then she changed the angle of the vibrator and he lost his focus. “Ahhhhh…”

          Wicked, awful, wonderful, clever woman. Despite his comfort with her, Greg had been hesitant to try certain things. But after encouraging John to pursue a relationship with another man, Greg had decided that he was being a coward and given Molly the green light.

          I’ll start out slow, she’d promised, we’ll take it in stages, she’d said. Well, she hadn’t penetrated him, so there was that. But he doubted that oiling him up with flavored lube and teasing his balls and perineum with a vibrator was exactly slow.

          The stimulation was so amazing, so intense, that Greg had been sure he would climax right away. Instead his pleasure was being heightened but he had yet to come. Not that he could complain, as it felt bloody phenomenal. He doubted he had ever been so hard; if Molly were to take him in her mouth right now…it would most likely be over.

          Rather than take pity on him, however, she was tormenting him. His teeth were actually chattering, and tears kept falling from his eyes; he was unable to contain them. Distantly Greg felt somewhat ashamed of his lack of control. Intimately, he felt bloody grateful that Molly was so adventurous. He tried to tell her that but gibberish mixed with her name and a few curse words came out instead. He heard her laugh.

          “Ready?” He managed a nod, although he wasn’t entirely certain what he was agreeing to.

          A slick finger entered him and Greg shouted, hips rising; it wasn’t clear, even to him, if he was trying to escape or get closer. Then Molly’s finger started moving and he shouted again, hands and feet pressing against the mattress as his body arched, and he proceeded to fall apart. Never had he had such a long, drawn out and intense orgasm, and dimly he was afraid he might actually be having some sort of stroke.

          A long time later Greg felt capable of talking. He rolled his head toward Molly, who was lying on her side next to him, head propped on her hand. Her smile widened when he looked at her, and he managed a sleepy chuckle, “Wow.”

          “Oh, yeah?” She put her hand on his chest, dropped a kiss on his bicep. “Seemed like you were ah, enjoying yourself.” She smirked, “I heard a lot of cursing and pleading with God.”

          “Wow,” he said again, and received a kiss on the mouth. “You?” He asked, apparently incapable of full sentences.

          Molly brandished the vibrator, “You just relax, I’ve got this.”

          “But I—“

          “You couldn’t put on socks right now, much less summon the energy to get me off,” Molly turned the vibrator on, and the sound made his balls tingle with the memory. “You can watch if you want.” Her innocent tone was at odds with her seductive expression, and Greg pulled himself together enough to roll onto his side so he could better watch his girlfriend masturbate in front of him. Her expression morphed into pleasure as she began, and Greg lowered his head to suck on her nipple, smiling when she arched her back. _God I love her_ , he thought fuzzily.

 

******

 

          Mycroft picked at invisible lint on his trousers, and straightened the seam, dusting his hands off after. “Tell me, do you thrive on dirt and disorder? Or do you merely believe it lends authenticity to the bohemian squalor in which you sequester yourself?”

          “A bit of lint—and imaginary lint at that—is hardly squalor.” Sherlock scoffed, not taking his eyes away from the microscope he was peering through. There wasn’t a slide under the lens but he hoped if he acted busy that Mycroft would get bored and leave.

          “Lint is but a charming accessory to the usual detritus in this…” Mycroft paused delicately, looking around him, “cesspit you choose to call home.”

          “We are, in fact, cleaner than usual,” Sherlock countered, fiddling with the controls and pretending to make a note in his notebook. “Watson’s presence has insured that.”

          “No more toes in the ‘fridge’? Severed heads in the microwave?” Mycroft paused, “Or was that the other way around? No matter. I’m pleased to see that the child hasn’t curtailed your activities too much.” He couldn’t have sounded farther from pleased if he had tried.

          “Why should she?” Sherlock asked, finally looking up, “When we’re working she’s at the child minders. I have an entire ‘fridge’ to store body parts in. The rest of the flat has hardly changed.”

          “Oh no?” Mycroft sounded arch. Oh how pleasant it would be to punch him in his stupid, fat face…

          “No.” Sherlock was curt. “Is there an actual point to your visit? Or did you inflict yourself on me merely as a change of pace from your busy day of overeating and interfering in government affairs?”

          “Perhaps I just wanted to see what domestic bliss looked like.” Sherlock stiffened and pretended as if he wasn’t listening. “However,” went on his loathsome sibling, “I perceive that ‘bliss’ might be too strong a word. Trouble in paradise? Tiff amongst the lovers? What’s wrong, Sherlock? Is John’s daughter a bit too much to handle? Can your love not survive?”

          “Watson is fine.” Sherlock gritted his teeth, “John is fine. We are not, as you are aware, lovers.”

          “Not for lack of longing,” Mycroft said quite near his ear and Sherlock just managed not to jump. He had been too focused on maintaining an air of disinterest in Mycroft’s teasing and had failed to notice his elder brother approach. “Aren’t you a little old for an identity crisis, brother mine?”

          Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “I don’t have an identity crisis, fatty. What are you even talking about?”

          “All this pedestrian _longing_. The sexual _confusion_.” Mycroft’s light tone was mocking, but Sherlock knew when his brother was actually trying to wound and when he was just stirring things up. “Shouldn’t you have experienced all this, oh, say twenty years ago?”

          “I’m not longing and I’m not confused,” Sherlock asserted, matching his brother’s gimlet eyed stare. “You’re doubtless confusing me with you and your unnatural desires for cake.”

          Mycroft’s perfectly manicured hand fluttered up to his breast, laid across his heart—well, where one would be, if he had one, and Sherlock doubted it—“How you aim to wound, little brother. I confess! I do love a good cake every now and then.” Smiling archly, he leaned in, “But I was referring to your juvenile pining for Doctor Watson.”

          Unable to help himself, Sherlock flinched.

          “Don’t you think its past time you dropped the act, little brother?”

          “What act?” Sherlock demanded, recovering.

          “You cling so tenaciously to your labels. Sociopath. A _sexual_.” Mycroft tutted, “Surely you’re not actually scared of sex, are you?” For a brief moment his gaze softened, and Sherlock saw his big brother, the one who had always hovered protectively. “I think it’s time you got over that. Plunge at last into a nice, boring domestic arrangement with John Watson and stop pretending you aren’t positively gasping with sexual frustration.”

          And just like that, his brother was as annoying as ever.

          “I don’t experience sexual need, nor frustration,” Sherlock said coolly. He almost believed himself.

          “You always were remarkably stubborn, and the most blind when it came to yourself.” Mycroft crossed to the door, shrugged on his coat, picked up his umbrella, “May I just say one thing?”

          “As long as you leave immediately after,” Sherlock grumbled.

          Mycroft smiled thinly, regarding him silently. Sherlock resisted the urge to fidget. They stared at one another wordlessly, each trying to outwait the other. Just when Sherlock was opening his mouth to make a cutting remark, Mycroft spoke. “Demisexual.” He departed, closing the door softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know only a little about demisexuality, and I am in no way meaning to misrepresent or belittle anyone's lifestyle. To me, this seems, however, like a natural "designation" for Sherlock's sexuality. He's not attracted to random people, in general, because he's demisexual, and because he likes very few people he doesn't feel specific attraction based on liking. John, is, as we all know, incredibly important to him, and their closeness, friendship and mutual affection, would, I believe, cause Sherlock to feel that attraction and sexual longing. But, being Sherlock, and not bothering overly with relationships, emotions, or sex, he would probably have long since decided he was asexual and not have acted on anything he felt for John. So I think our poor lad is going to have some confused times ahead, but since it's me, y'all know there will be a happy ending.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Molly continue to test their boundaries; Molly has a few embarrassing bruises to explain. Mrs. Hudson proves that sex is great at any age. John tries to distract himself from the awkwardness between Sherlock and himself by cleaning the flat, but he keeps fantasizing about just telling Sherlock he loves him. Sherlock and Ella discuss John's kiss and Sherlock decides to talk to John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback are AWESOME and very much welcome. I'd love to know what readers think. Especially since a lot of this was awkward to write...I love Sherlock but I find this version of him very difficult when it comes to emotions. Troublesome man.

Sally thought it was weird how Greg kept grinning to himself. They were at work; granted, it was a slow day and they were catching up on paperwork, so they weren’t neck deep in corpses at least. But they were at _work_ , it was a _slow_ day, and they were _catching up on paperwork_. Really not any reason for him to keep smiling to himself; he looked so self-satisfied she suspected it was sexual.

          Ever since he started dating Molly Hooper—who was nice enough, but c’mon, not anybody’s idea of a fun, sexy goodtime girl—the boss had definitely been in a better mood ninety percent of the time. Not that he had been a sourpuss before, he was too naturally good-natured for that, but he hadn’t used to sit at his desk smiling for no reason.

          Sally shouldn’t complain, she could be working under Gregson. But it wasn’t natural, all this smiling.

 

******

 

          Swiveling his chair away from the desk, Greg stretched; he had been staring at the computer screen for too long and his eyes were feeling strained. Probably time he got fitted for reading glasses. God, what a depressing thought. It was hard to stay depressed long though, thinking about the night before. Turning around he hunted through the mess of files on his desk and found his phone. Just a quick text to Molly to let her know he was thinking about her then it was strictly back to work. The sooner he was done the sooner he could go home.

**I’ve been thinking about last night all day.**

          He had filed his notes on a case and was putting the folder in his outbox when his mobile chimed. He read his text and smiled broadly. **_Ready for round two tonight big boy?_**

          _Bless that woman_ , he thought fondly, and sped up the pace. Definitely getting out of the office as soon as possible tonight!

 

*****

 

          Boring staff meetings were infinitely more enjoyable when Molly considered that she had further bedroom or sitting room or bathtub or dining nook or…well, adventures to look forward to with Greg. However, since she was a consummate professional—her negligence in letting Sherlock get away with everything short of murder aside—she kept her thoughts on the matters at hand.

          This wasn’t to say that when they broke for coffee she didn’t send Greg a little tease. She was quite looking forward to testing their boundaries tonight…

 

******

 

          John ushered out his four o’clock patient and signaled Eva to give him a few minutes. Closing the door he sat at his workstation and slumped, letting his exhaustion and worry cloak him for a minute. He had thrown himself into work today, seeking a distraction. Talking with Molly and with Greg about this whole confusing mess between him and Sherlock had helped, but he had gotten home late and found Sherlock waiting for him.

          It was obvious the other man had been waiting; he was still standing at the window. But he had acted as if John’s arriving home were an annoyance and had basically ignored him. John spent a restless night, unable to sleep soundly for his fear that things were irreparable between them. _Why_ had he kissed Sherlock? It wasn’t worth losing his friendship; John had withstood the temptation for years, he could surely have restrained his growing attraction for the sake of keeping Sherlock in his life?

          His shift ended in a few hours, and after he stopped at the child minders for Rosie he was going to swing by the shops and get a few supplies, including the milk they apparently needed. Then it was on home to pretend as if nothing had ever happened. That was clearly how Sherlock wanted things.

 

******

 

          Sherlock sat with his eyes closed, hands steepled beneath his chin. The room was quiet, the lighting low, and the mood calm. If only his insides matched the outward appearance of calm.

          “Sherlock, how can we resolve anything if you shut me out?”

          He sat still, pretending he was alone.

          “If you want to talk about anything, you know you can tell me. I’m not going to judge you. This relationship can’t work without open communication. We’ve discussed this.”

          He opened his eyes but didn’t speak. Why was there this cold, clammy fearful feeling in his stomach? He was safe here.

          “Has this anything to do with your sister? I know how difficult it is on you to pay her a visit. Is that it?”

          “It’s not Eurus.” Sherlock finally spoke, turning his head slightly but keeping his eyes averted. It was easier if he didn’t make direct eye contact when he talked about emotions. His mask felt fragile today. “This is to do with…John.”

          “I see.” Ella sat silently until he wanted to twitch. He knew what she was doing. It was an effective interrogation technique, to sit silently and make the other person nervous enough to start babbling. Fortunately he was adept at outwaiting opponents. “And what about John has brought you here today? I was under the impression that things had returned to normal for the two of you?”

          “He is…that is, he has done something to change that.” Sherlock looked at her, to prove he wasn’t afraid to meet her eyes. Her steady regard unsettled him and he looked away, pretending to inspect his nails. “Last week he—“

          Ella rested her chin in her hand, her elbow on the arm of her chair. The air handling system silently refreshed the air, the curtains barely rippled. Outside the world passed by in muffled confusion, and inside Sherlock sat in her overly serene office and felt as if he would drown if he opened himself up. If he admitted to the tumultuous feelings inside him it opened the door to weakness, disorder and decay.

          “He what, Sherlock?”

          Exhaling, Sherlock took a steadying breath and counted to ten. “John kissed me.” The breathing hadn’t helped. Just saying it sucked the air out of the room. If he closed his eyes he could almost pretend it were that day, when John’s kiss had sucked the air from the room in much the same manner. Afterward he had felt exhilarated, dizzy, almost giddy with a rush of emotion, and despite the confusion he had experienced it had been…welcome.

          “What did you feel when he kissed you?”

          “What do you think I felt? Or did you perhaps mean what did I think?”

          “Either. Both.”

          _I felt raw, exposed, terrified, thrilled_ , Sherlock thought. He had thought he was dreaming, that he had somehow been dosed with a narcotic and was undergoing a strange hallucination. It surely couldn’t be that John Watson was kissing him. “I was naturally confused,” Sherlock said shortly. “I thought perhaps John had been drinking.”

          “Does John normally become affectionate when he drinks?”

          “Not particularly,” Sherlock lied. He thought about Dartmoor, John pissed and giggling as he helped him to their room, tumbling into the bed and trying to pull Sherlock down with him. John on his stag night, playing Rizlas in the flat, nearly falling into his lap and steadying himself with a casual hand to Sherlock’s knee; _I don’t mind_ , John had slurred, with what might almost have been a bat of his sandy eyelashes.

          “And did you talk about it with him? The kiss, how it made you feel.”

          “I told him I regarded him as a friend. I am asexual and I do not involve myself in relationships.” Sherlock felt the agitation rising, remembered Mycroft’s parting words. Of course, he had at some point in his life no doubt heard of demi-sexuality, but like so much else he had deleted it.

          He had resisted researching it for two hours.

          “And why do you consider yourself asexual?”

          “Because I don’t have sex. Obviously,” Sherlock sneered.

          “That makes you celibate,” Ella observed tartly. His lips quivered but Sherlock refused to smile. He wasn’t going to encourage her. “And why no relationships?”

          “Normal people have relationships that involve sex. I don’t have sex.”

          _Not all relationships_ , Molly had said to him. _The right person would appreciate your Sherlockness_. He had pretended to be amused, but really he had…what? Felt a kind of sadness that there wasn’t that right person for him. Or rather, not the person he wanted. He could have John’s friendship, but he couldn’t have his love. Now it looked like he could have his love—was it love? Was it lust? Insanity? A whim?—but it would cost him sex. And he didn’t know if he wanted that, if he could have it even. Well. He could have it. He had normal biological impulses and while he rarely acted upon them there were still times when he masturbated to completion.

          But did he want sex? Did he have to have it? Why did sex always have to come up in everything? For God’s sake, why were humans so prone to lust and copulation? What was wrong with intellect, reason, order?

          “Sherlock?”

          He realized Ella must have been speaking for some time. “Yes?”

          “I asked you, do you think that John would be content with a romance which did not involve sex? Have you considered asking him how he feels about it?”

          Decidedly not. The entire matter was uncomfortable enough without talking to John about it. “John is a sexual creature. He has, as long as I’ve known him, always sought the company of women.”

          “Does that make you doubt his attraction to you?”

          Did it? Yes, somewhat. Why this sudden deviation from the norm? “I hadn’t considered it. But my point is that he needs sex. If I cannot give that to him…”

          Ella regarded him with a shadow of concern, “I think it would be good if you sat down with John and asked him what his intentions are. Perhaps the two of you are not as polar opposite on this matter as you believe.”

 

******

 

          God bless young men and their stamina, Martha thought—rather a disordered thought, true, as she was currently rather distracted—they were really marvelous. She loved the company of young people, their energy, their vitality. They were active, ambitious and they kept her young.

          It was hard for her to realize, sometimes, that she was nearly seventy; it seemed just yesterday that she had been a sprightly, lithe young dancer. What a string of lovers she had had in her youth! The older she got the fewer men she found who could keep up with her, not contemporaries, anyway. Younger men, now, ah they had the ability to go longer, give repeat performances and they were so adventurous and talented!

          But sadly a lot of them were ageist. Martha knew she wasn’t the pretty young thing she once had been, but she was also aware that she was quite attractive still, and she had gotten more than her fair share of male attention from all ages.

          Henry now, young, delicious, very fit Henry was definitely interested and it wasn’t just the drink. He had escorted her home after Molly and Greg’s housewarming party and they had engaged in a very passionate tryst. She hadn’t quite expected him to call her after that, but then lo and behold he had called just this morning and asked her rather diffidently if she wanted “a coffee.”

          “I’d rather have you in my bed,” Martha had told him frankly. He’s seemed more than keen. Really, men were as transparent as glass, no matter what their age.

          He was currently doing his manful best to satisfy her and while it felt wonderful, Martha was getting a bit bored. In and out, in and out. Is that all men thought there was to it?

          A flex of her hips—nothing wrong with either of them, she just liked to remind the boys that she was due a little consideration and if she had to use guilt then so be it—and Henry’s eyes rolled back. “Oh God,” he panted, slowing, flanks quivering. “Is that—was that you? What did you—oh, Jesus Christ that’s brilliant!”

          Smiling smugly, Martha tightened her passage around his nice fat cock. Daily Kegel exercises, thank you, plus years of dancing. She was as tight as a twenty year old. Well, almost. You can’t take back fifty years and most of those spent shagging. “Why don’t you slow down,” she suggested, squeezing his fantastically sculpted arms and rolling her pelvis under his while tightening her inner muscles again. “It’s not a race.”

          “Goddamn you’re incredible,” Henry said, sweat dripping from his face. He was slowly going red, “My dick feels like—ahh, ahh God, Marty, you’re—Jesus!”

          “That’s right,” she smiled and leaned up to bit his ear, tracing a finger up his crack as she did so. He leapt and flexed inside her and she moaned. “Move like that again and I’ll come for you.” Dropping her voice she kissed his corded neck, “And then I’ll show you some other fun things…”

 

******

 

          Rosamunde Watson was energetic, curious, demanding and quite a heartbreaker. Her friendly, winsome nature made her a popular child with John’s friends and colleagues; and despite her peaks of energy that could make her an exhausting chore to keep up with, she was very sweet and could be nicely distracted with books, interactive toys and the telly. John always felt guilty when he turned it on and sat his daughter down in front of it; but God, sometimes he just needed a little time to get things done, or even just sit with a cup of tea and catch his breath.

          He was sure that Mary would have torn a strip out of him if she had seen how often he plunked their child down in front of the idiot box that week. But his head was a maelstrom of confusion and opposing emotional impulses and John had found it distracting to clean. 221B had never been so sanitary; the corners of the ceiling were swept of cobwebs, crumbs were brushed from the sofa cushions, the rugs all Hoovered to within an inch of their weft, and he even got on his hands and knees and scrubbed the baseboards.

          Rosie thought that was a fun game and crawled on her hands and knees behind him, “helping.”

          The laundry, which had begun to pile up alarmingly was ruthlessly bundled into bags and wrestled down to the basement. John put Rosie in her gym chair and she zoomed around the room, squealing, delighted with the echoes. He sat on the washer and composed a series of texts to Sherlock that he never sent. Longing, like an ember long dormant, had been fanned to life in his chest by that kiss, and now a wildfire of very inconvenient emotion was threating to spread.

          “If only I could just text him an _I’m sorry_ and that would be the end of it, eh Rosie?” John scrubbed at his face, “Although what I really want is to tell him _I love you_.”

          Once the last load of laundry was in the dryer, John carted everything back upstairs and turned on a mindless and annoying children’s program for Rosie, gave her a box of animal crackers to occupy her and began folding. Most of Sherlock’s things were dry clean only, but his pants, socks, vests, pyjamas and some of his shirts          got washed. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, did their ironing, so John was spared that task. Sherlock, being the high-maintenance prima donna he was, left most mundane chores for the rest of them, and John had long gotten used to sorting, washing and folding his laundry. He was now intimately familiar with Sherlock’s sock index.

          “How a man who keeps unlabeled body parts in the fridge can be such a stickler for separating solids and argyle I’ll never understand,” John had once grumbled to Lestrade over a pint. He remembered now the look he had received. God, had it been obvious even then that his complaints were pro forma? Did all of London know he loved the arsehole?

          Now, now that John had breached that long-ignored wall and confronted his feelings; he had a difficult time handling things he had once done on auto pilot. He wasn’t a perv, but the intimacy of folding Sherlock’s briefs held new meaning now, and John found his hands trembling as he sat unmoving. His mind had helpfully supplied a very vivid image of the younger man in nothing but those jade green bits of cotton. Due to the ridiculous number of times Sherlock had gotten injured and needed John’s assistance, and given that he had been known to shamble about the flat in naught more than a loosely tied dressing gown or just a sheet, John had a pretty good idea of his physique.

          Not having gotten an eyeful of the entirety he had to use his imagination to supply some details, but his imagination was working overtime and John felt a bit flushed. _Pull it together, Watson_.

          His feelings—and the pants—were put away and Rosie was investigating her lunch when Sherlock came back. John dithered for a moment on whether or not to casually greet him while pretending to read the paper, or whether he should just chat as if nothing had changed. Sherlock stopped short in the doorway, “It smells like a chemical explosion in here.”

          John was unable to help but grin at the fastidious tone his friend employed, “It’s smelled of worse in here. Remember the time you set the timer wrong and the toes exploded in the microwave? Eugh, what a pong!”

          Sherlock’s expression of hauteur was very nearly convincing, “Nonsense, I didn’t set the timer wrong, the machine malfunctioned.”

          The disbelieving noise John made caused a slight smile to turn up the corners of Sherlock’s mouth, leavening his serious expression. It was an old argument, and one John liked to use to twit Sherlock with randomly. It rather looked as though Sherlock was reassured by that return to normalcy. _He’s been tense_ , John reflected, aware of a feeling of sadness that their usual way of getting on had been so strained. This was why he had spent years ignoring his own impulses; he had known it wouldn’t go over well. _He doesn’t do relationships_ , he reminded himself. _He’s made that pretty fucking clear, and he wants you to remember it. You’d do well to go back to the way things were and put an end to all this uneasiness. Don’t even apologize or assure him it’s been forgotten; just pretend it never happened. That’s what he wants._

So it was puzzling that Sherlock seemed so deflated when John cheerfully informed him that there were sandwiches and soup if he wanted lunch, and let him know he had some new requests on the website before he went back to overseeing Rosie’s messy consumption of lunch.

 

******

 

          Getting out of bed sent some twinges through Greg, and he wished he could slide back under the warm covers, curl around Molly’s relaxed form and sleep in a bit then wake her for some slow sex. _Should have gotten my fill last night_ , he smirked, thinking of the restraints, the dildos, the feathers and Molly. He felt as insatiable as a young man when it came to her, and despite a rather late evening of amorous acrobatics he was willing and able to go again.

          But she looked quite peaceful and he was loathe to wake her on her day off. He had a training session scheduled with Henry anyway, and he wanted to keep that. Afterwards he and Molly were to meet Malcolm and Stephen for lunch and he’d no doubt consume as many calories as he burned off at the gym. Dressed and gym bag in hand, Greg got the tea and coffee things all ready for Molly since she was rather a zombie in the mornings, and fed Toby, who had fled the bedroom to hide under the couch when the evening had gotten going.

          “Sorry we scared you, old boy,” Greg apologized, scratching between Toby’s laid back ears as a deep grumbling purr rattled the cat’s sleek frame. “You’ve been snipped but I’m sure you remember what it was like when you were tomcatting around in your salad days.” Feeling a brotherly commiseration for the cat’s neutered state, Greg fed him a couple of fishy smelling treats Molly kept for special occasions and let himself out of the house.

          It was a clear morning and traffic wasn’t too awful, so he made decent time on his way to the gym. He lived farther away now that he and Molly lived together, and had considered moving to a different gym location, but he liked his usual place, and had gotten into a comfortable routine with Henry. No need to change just yet was his conclusion.

          “Good morning, mate,” he greeted the younger man and was surprised to see him looking a bit tired. Henry was one of those aggressively perky morning people who always seemed to flourish best at five in the morning, but today he seemed a bit done in. “Hard night?”

          Henry’s dazed and lascivious smile alerted Greg to an incoming story of a conquest. “God, Greg…it was a long, hard day if you know what I mean.” Henry leaned in and lowered his voice, “I’ve never been with a woman who was so…womanly.”

          Greg laughed, “Womanly, eh? She sounds a proper shag if your face is anything to go by. Good on you, sounds like you found a winner.”

          “Just…wow…” Henry looked at Greg solemnly, as if he were about to impart a vital secret. “Older women…they really do know all kinds of crazy tricks, I’ve never been with a girl my own age who…knew things.”

          “An older lady, huh?” Greg clapped him on the shoulder, “That’s great, Henry. So, I’ve been thinking I want to bulk up my arms a bit—“

          “I just wanted to say thanks,” Henry interrupted, as if he hadn’t heard Greg. Damn, there went his hopes of changing the subject. Sex was great and all, but he was having his own regular, he didn’t need to hear about Henry and some cougar. Especially not at this time of day. “I wouldn’t have met her if not for your party.”

          “Eh—what?”

          Henry didn’t seem to notice Greg’s bug-eyed expression of disbelief. “I’ve seen her twice. The first time was, well, a bit of a lark…I’ve always wanted to be with an older woman, and she was so friendly and so interested in me. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Martha so yesterday—“

          “You…and Martha Hudson…the two of you…?” Greg was aware of a slight ringing in his ears. Bloody hell, Molly had called it; Mrs. Hudson had put the moves on Henry and he had succumbed. Twice. Fuck. She must be amazing.

          “Like nothing you would ever believe, Greg,” Henry grinned widely, “I’m seeing her again Wednesday. I wanted to see her again tonight but she has a long-standing poker game, and she said Sundays she goes to visit friends, and Monday and Tuesday she’s full up.” He shook his head, “I think she has a busier social life than me!”

          “Small wonder,” Greg said in a daze. Apparently the woman’s vagina was some kind of phenomenon. Oh God, now he was picturing Mrs. Hudson’s vagina.

 

******

 

          After sleeping in, Molly had enjoyed a leisurely pot of tea, catching up on emails whilst sitting in the walled back garden with Toby; following a quick skim of the gossip sights she had showered and dressed. She was meeting Sheila at Meena’s so they could see the latest artwork and textiles she had brought back from Vietnam and then she had plans for lunch with Greg, Malcolm and Stephen.

          There were several bruises that were new, as well as a good deal of beard burn on her skin. Molly lathered up with her delicious smelling body gel, smiling from ear to ear. The last two nights had been intensely thrilling and she found herself smiling in a very cat-who-got-the-cream sort of manner all the time.

          Risking being late, she went through several outfit choices before she selected a pink gingham print dress and a pale green summer weight cardigan with appliques of watermelon slices around the neck. Brushing her blow-dried hair out, Molly pulled it into a high ponytail and curled the ends and left the loose curls bouncing around her shoulders. She had been thinking about changing her hair, the older she got the more she thought a shorter style might suit her more. Hmm, something she would ask the girls opinion on. They were both very image conscious, much more so than herself.

          They were both enthusiastic, so much so that Molly felt a pinch of hurt that apparently her looks needed that much updating. But their enthusiasm was kindly meant, and the three of them spent some time searching for photos on their mobiles, finally agreeing on several different styles. Molly started to feel eager about the idea of changing her look. “I like these,” she decided, and tucked her phone away. She’d discuss the styles with her hairdresser the following weekend.

          Being three very busy professionals, they admired the artwork, fingered the textiles, heard some more about Meena’s trip to Vietnam, shared a pot of coffee and caught up on the high points of their lives.

          Meena had thoroughly enjoyed Vietnam and wanted to go on a trekking holiday which the two of them weren’t entirely keen on. Sheila updated them on the somewhat slow progress Philip was making with Anthony—progress which was echoed in the equal slowness with which she was willing to move their physical relationship along. Molly was forced to blushingly explain the genesis of her interesting bruises when Meena caught sight of her wrist when Molly’s sleeve rode up.

          Since they all had busy days ahead of them they parted ways after two hours and Molly, looking at her phone, realized she had enough time on her hands that she could walk to the pub. Her phone rang, and she was pleased and surprised to see that it was Anna. They chatted for a bit and Molly invited her to join them. “Your dad and I would love to see you, and you know Mal and Stephen would too.”

          “I’ve got plans later with Mum, so I can’t stay long, but sure, I’ll see you there.” Anna’s voice was muffled, “I’ve got to change, so I’ll let you go. See you in a bit, Molls.”

          Even considering that she had walked, Molly was the first to arrive at the pub, and she greeted the bartender, an older woman whose name she had never learned and waved at a few regulars on her way to the Ladies. It was such a nice day she decided to take one of the tables in the tiny courtyard while she waited. Stephen was the next to arrive and after he had given her an enthusiastic hug he dropped next to her, “What’s that you’re drinking?”

          “Tequila sunrise,” Molly laughed, “The sun was out and the weather is cooperating for once…I can’t stop thinking about lying on a lounger in the sun. This seemed appropriate.”

          “Mm, sounds good, actually. And it has orange juice, so we’re practically making a healthy choice.” Stephen winked and went to get himself the same. By the time the others arrived the two of them were in high spirits.

          “Oh my God,” Malcolm groaned to Greg, “He’s drinking Tequila? We’re going home after this, the man can’t handle Tequila.”

          “Molly starts taking off her clothes,” Greg chuckled, thinking about their Mexican holiday. He’d managed—with difficulty—to keep her from stripping off her clothes in public, and had ended up carrying her over his shoulder back to their resort.

          “Buncha lightweights,” Anna joked. “It’s a good thing we didn’t keep them waiting any longer or they’d be streaking down the high road.”

          A high-calorie lunch helped steady the two of them, and the five of them enjoyed a leisurely meal. Anna regretfully departed, already having plans with her mother, leaving the four adults to linger over a last round of drinks. “Can we retire to a tropical island?” Molly sighed, leaning against Greg, who put an arm around her and kissed her temple. “You can fish and I can take up painting or snorkeling…we can live in bathing suits.” She looked down at herself, “Although if we’re going to do that I have to stop eating so much.”

          “You look gorgeous,” Malcolm assured her, patting her arm. “But you’re right, we definitely ate too much. God, I miss being twenty! I could have stayed up twice as late last night, drank twice as much today and lose the extra pounds twice as fast. Now it takes punishment at the gym on a grand scale.”

          “Oh Christ,” Greg groaned dramatically, covering his eyes, “Don’t mention gyms to me! I still want to bleach out my brain after what I heard this morning.”

          Which of course meant he had to tell them all about his conversation with Henry. Molly crowed triumphantly, and insisted she had won, even though they hadn’t bet anything; Malcolm shook his head in disbelief and Stephen somewhat drunkenly declared Mrs. Hudson “the coolest.”

          “I’m glad you all think it’s great,” Greg winced, “But I had to hear all the details—not that I begrudge Mrs. H her fun, but I don’t want to think about her naked. I’m just grateful they didn’t take pictures or Henry would have tried a show and tell!”

          “How do you know they didn’t?” Molly asked slyly.

 

******

 

          Sherlock was annoyed.

          He had made it clear to John that friendship was all that could be between them.

          John was abiding by that. John was practically behaving normally. There was no need to discuss it further. Ella was used to much less advanced intellects than his; clearly he could disregard her advice. The time to talk about it was past and they were going to move forward. John, aside from his rather strenuous cleaning frenzy, was behaving much as he normally did. There was no need for Sherlock to drag things back out in the open.

          But…Sherlock hated that John was behaving so normally. How could he be feeling normal? Things were decidedly not normal. Clearly John was just acting as if everything were fine; which is what _he_ should do, especially since he had made it clear that he didn’t want anything besides friendship.

          But now he was obsessing about how John could act as if everything were fine. What had prompted John to kiss him in the first place if he could so easily revert to his previous behaviour? Did he regret it and was he now grateful that Sherlock had set boundaries? Were they really going to experience something so profoundly unusual in their personal lives and actually pretend it hadn’t happened at all? John was ridiculously accommodating but surely even he couldn’t just turn his feelings off like that.

          And that was the problem. Because now Sherlock was aware that John had feelings, and he had acknowledged his own (that he had thought safely buried after all this time) and Ella had aggravated the situation by intimating that perhaps happiness was within reach if only Sherlock would talk to John. Sherlock told himself it couldn’t possibly be that simple, that they would kiss, talk, and somehow find…what, happiness?

          That wasn’t how things went, it wasn’t the normal way. People felt attraction or they didn’t; they didn’t hover somewhere in between, not even sure themselves if they felt desire—if they _wanted_ to feel it, even. Who ever heard of a thirty-eight year old virgin? People were gay or they were straight; they didn’t suddenly decide at forty-three that they liked men as well as women.

          Only…well, when had he and John ever done anything normally?

          That was a comforting thought, actually. It comforted him all the way up the stairs to John’s room. Sherlock, never much accustomed to niceties like knocking, had often walked into John’s room unannounced and because he didn’t want to waver or wait, he didn’t stop this time either.

          Ah. Apparently John had just showered. Strange that he hadn’t heard him in the bathroom.

          “Sherlock?” John, who had been toweling his hair, stopped and slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder. His nakedness didn’t appear to bother him, but Sherlock gathered that he wasn’t turning so as not to make _him_ uncomfortable.

          Mummy and Mycroft had both told him staring was rude. He knew this. John’s naked rear, beaded with water, the left hip scarred rather hideously, had captured Sherlock’s attention and he told himself to look away, to meet John’s eyes. He did. John’s colour was somewhat heightened, but his eyes were steady, “You alright?”

          “Er—“

          John’s eyes softened and he turned, dropping his hand to casually hold the towel in front of his groin. “Sherlock, are you okay?”

          “Yes!” Sherlock snapped out of it, mind whirling. Apparently he did feel desire for other people. Right now he had the desire to see John drop that towel. “I—sorry—didn’t realize you were—I see you’ve showered.”

          John’s eyes crinkled and he half smiled, “Yup. Is that all you wanted to know?” He was still holding the towel but his stance had relaxed and it was hanging quite low. The towel, that was.

          “I came to talk to you but I was unaware you were—naked.”

          “Generally what happens when one showers,” John said easily, and relaxed fully, both arms now hanging at his sides, the towel trailing from one hand. Sherlock gave up and stared his fill. John was really quite beautiful, ascetically speaking, in a purely physical sense. Aside from the scarring and the slight pudge in his middle, he was very—

          “It’s ugly, isn’t it?” John was matter-of-fact.

          “Not that I have made a study of such matters, but I believe your penis is nothing extraordinary, John.”

          John surprised him with a laugh, and Sherlock flushed, going on the defensive. John grinned at him, “I was talking about the scar tissue, Sherlock. But thanks for the ego-boost.”

          Aware that if he opened his mouth he would just flounder, Sherlock remained silent. He was so far out of his depth here…

          John misinterpreted his silence and a look of chagrin passed over his face; he wrapped the towel around his hips and knotted it. “Christ, I’m sorry, Sherlock. You said friendship only—and then I had to go and get cute. I’m sorry, if you’ll give me a minute I’ll get dressed and come down to the parlour. We can talk there.”

          He had never craved danger in the way that John did, it was just a by-product of the sorts of situations his work exposed him to. Sherlock needed stimulation, not adrenaline, to keep the boredom at bay. Well this current situation felt both stimulating and dangerous enough for both of them. Unaware of having moved, Sherlock—fully cognizant of what he was doing and what it meant—watched as his hand moved with agonizing slowness. There was a moment where he could have stopped himself; but with a shaky sense of exhilaration Sherlock deliberately pulled on the knot and let John’s towel fall.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We pick up with John and Sherlock, immediately after the towel incident. Things go well...mostly. Can anything go smoothly when Sherlock Holmes is involved? Greg and Molly both learn more than they want to know about what the boys got up to, and Sherlock makes a deduction about Molly and Greg's sex life that he wasn't prepared for. Molly and Greg have their own sexy times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. I was having writer's block/dealing with existential angst/found some really amazing fan fictions to read and got caught up in those. Hope this was worth the wait!

          Shouldn’t have come as any surprise to him, really; once Sherlock decided to do something he’d do it thoroughly.

          Slip went the knot, swoop went the towel, and there stood John, naked and half hard. Really not sure where to put his hands. Casually put them on his hips? Naw, he’d look like Superman, or maybe more like Peter Pan gone to seed, since he was too short to be the Man of Steel. Loose at his sides? Hmm, maybe that looked slightly pugnacious, as if he wanted to fight. Clasp them in front of him and it looked like he had something to hide, which he _didn’t_ , thank you very much. Clasp them behind him and it looked like he was flaunting himself.

          John’s dithering went out the door when Sherlock kissed him.

          He’d had more skilled kisses, but not many that approached this one for sheer sizzle factor. Sherlock wasn’t being particularly rapacious or sloppy, but his lips moving on John’s had a certain enthusiastic body part sitting up and taking notice.

          So. Here he was, kissing another man. Naked. While that man was fully clothed. Should have been weird. It was actually…not. Bit hot, actually. Especially when John put an arm around Sherlock’s lean form and pulled their bodies closer. Ah, those fine fabrics lightly abrading his naked body, mm, yes. And what really dreamy lips Sherlock had. He was a very, very quick learner too. But old John still had a few tricks up his sleeve.

          Sherlock actually gasped into John’s mouth, and then his tongue was eagerly stroking John’s and suddenly the sizzle factor on this kiss was at a thousand percent and there couldn’t possibly have been more sizzle in a sizzle factory, not even on their most productive day. And when John lightly cupped one of Sherlock’s very fine arse cheeks in his hands and gave it a friendly squeeze…well, judging by the shudder that wracked the other man, the two of them were firmly entrenched in Lustville. In Lustonia.

          _We’ll win the prize for prettiest village_ , John thought hazily, rocking his erection lightly against Sherlock’s clothed thigh. _Mm, yes, prizes and awards and…bloody hell, we just moved into Upper Lustville. Or would that be Lower Lustville?_

Daring, that was the word for Sherlock Holmes, no doubt about it. His hand had moved in a mirror image of John’s and was now palpating John’s own very fine buttock. Somehow, without John’s quite realizing exactly when it had started, they were frotting against one another. Really probably should take this slow, yes, slow it down, reduce the sizzle—

          With a choked off moan, Sherlock came, hips jerking in little spasms. John held back his own release and stretched on tiptoe to kiss Sherlock’s long throat, which was nicely exposed by his thrown back head. All wild curls and flushed cheeks and damp skin. John was murmuring, ridiculous things really, the kind of rubbish it would embarrass a man to recall later, but right now he could give two fucks.

          “Christ, Sherlock you gorgeous thing, that was brilliant.” John put both hands on his friend’s lean hips and kissed the damp skin of his clavicle, nuzzling in between the opened placket of his shirt. “So eager, so lovely…”

          Sherlock abruptly pushed him away, and John got a quick impression of his slightly tortured expression before the younger man was spinning for the door. _Oh no you don’t_ , John thought grimly, _you’re not running away from me now_. He gave a most undignified leap and slammed the door shut, holding the flat of his hand against it. Sherlock jerked at the door handle, refusing to look at John.

          “Hey, what’s going on?” John demanded, putting his weight into keeping the door mostly closed. He slithered in between the other man and the door and stared up at him, “Why are you running away?”

          Turning his head away didn’t entirely disguise the flushed cheeks, nor the miserable expression which he was not completely successful in eradicating. “I would prefer to leave, John. I have no desire to remain in the room and face your…derision.”

          “Derision?” John was astounded, but almost immediately he thought of the helpless noises Sherlock had made, the irresistible force of his orgasm…he was embarrassed, probably just as much about coming as about coming in his pants. “Hey, hey…” John tried to make him look at him but then gave it up, realizing Sherlock probably found comfort in avoiding eye contact. He gentled his voice, and dropped his hands, merely putting his palm lightly over Sherlock’s still racing heart.

          “If you’re embarrassed, don’t be. That was—that was truly—fuck, just amazing.” John shook his head at his own inability to express what he was feeling. “If it was too much for you, that’s fine and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken things that far. But I’m only human and you’re bloody beautiful.” He saw a flick of those beautiful eyes in his direction. “If you’re feeling ashamed because you came in your pants—“

          “Like a—an uncontrolled youth,” Sherlock hissed, sounding viciously dismayed with his own lack of control.

          “Have you ever—with someone else in the room, I mean.” John leaned back against the door. “Because if you haven’t, it can be pretty intense, the first time someone else is there. Touching you, sharing space.” John straightened, stepped one tiny step closer to Sherlock, who didn’t move away but didn’t look at him either. “Kissing, knowing they want to touch you…the first time I tried to take my kit off with a girl, well, let’s just say that I came before my buckle had come undone. And she wasn’t even _touching_ me.”

          Sherlock might possibly have relaxed incrementally. “You were no doubt a young man, John, not—“

          “Seventeen. All hormones and wet dreams and shaking hands. Doesn’t matter though, the first time with someone is still the first time.” John pressed both hands lightly against Sherlock’s chest, encouraged that he wasn’t putting space in between them. “It took me some time before I could mess about without being overcome.”

          “You’re not…disgusted with me?”

          _Ah, sweetheart_ , John thought fondly, but kept his thought to himself, certain it wouldn’t be appreciated. “Not at all. I’m pretty chuffed, actually.” That earned him a startled look. “I mean, obviously I know I am incredibly sexy, but now I have proof.” He grinned, and after a minute Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking much more like his normal self.

          “Are you okay?”

          “Sticky and feeling somewhat disgusting,” Sherlock admitted, going pink again, “But…thank you, John.”

          “Wanna…take off your pants and stay a while?” John knew it was a bad idea. There was a whole host of reasons why he shouldn’t push this. But he also wanted to seize this chance, whatever it meant. “You don’t have to do anything,” he said hastily, “But, I, well, I…don’t want you to leave.”

          This was apparently the right thing to say, for Sherlock looked at him then, and his look was the equivalent of the kiss they had shared. John felt life returning to his dick and tried to tell it sternly to shut up and lie down. Useless, that. Now he knew that Sherlock found him sexually attractive and was willing to allow at least some physical contact, his body was eager to line up and volunteer for another round.

 

******

 

          “Molly, Molly, Molly!” Mike Stamford called cheerfully, rounding the corner. Molly stopped at the door to the morgue and turned to smile at the cheerful man; Mike was unfailingly happy, polite and thoughtful. She had never met a man as Pollyanna-ish as Mike. They got along splendidly.

          “Good morning, Mike,” She greeted him cheerfully. “How are you? How are Helen and the kids?”

          “Wonderful! We had a lovely weekend at home, nice and peaceful. Completed a thousand piece puzzle of the Great Wall of China!” He smiled at her, “I almost didn’t recognize you. Changed your hair, didn’t you?”

          She put her hand up and touched her newly shorn locks; the loss of the length, the blunt ends, kept taking her by surprise. “I did. Felt like it was time for a change.”

          “It looks wonderful! Say, Helen and I wanted to invite you and Greg over for dinner one night soon…why don’t you tell me when your schedule looks good and we’ll set something up. I must be off, I heard Sherlock was in the building and there are one or two matters of missing equipment he and I need to discuss.”

          Molly waved him on his way and went into the morgue, bypassing the main autopsy suite and hurrying down the short hallway to her office. Time to put away her things and turn on the coffee maker, if one of the lab assistants hadn’t done it already. She didn’t sleep as well, with Greg gone, and some extra caffeine would be in order. Thank goodness he would be coming home today, she missed him terribly. She was also eager to show him her new look. He knew she was thinking about cutting her hair, but she had gone a little more…drastic than first planned.

          “Molly.”

          She squeaked in fright when Sherlock loomed in the doorway to the break room. “F—fudgy biscuits!” she fumbled, trying not to curse at work. “Why are you popping out at me like a scarecrow at a fun fair?”

          “I heard Stamford was on the prowl regarding some missing equipment and I wished to avoid his fumbling attempts to interrogate me without breaking a smile.”

          Molly giggled, as that was an excellent description of Mike’s human resource skills. “Equipment I’m sure you have nothing whatsoever to do with, hmm?”

          He looked bored, but she knew him too well. “I have no need to steal equipment. I have means to buy whatever I need, plus my excellent lock picking skills allow me access to all parts of the hospital, restricted or otherwise, so that I may work at my leisure on any equipment I do not have.”

          “Not really something you should admit, ‘specially if you want to look innocent,” Molly pointed out, filling the coffee maker’s reservoir with cold water and hunting about for the filters, which never seemed to stay in one place. “No wonder you’re top of the suspect list.”

          “I’m sure my good name will remain unbesmirched by this dastardly deed. Besides, if it _were_ me, then Mycroft would just send the Hospital Administrator a check.”

          She paused, mind on alert. He was being…different. “Is unbesmirched a word?” Molly asked casually, taking longer than strictly necessary to rummage through the cupboard.

          “Smirchless? Non-smirched? No matter. I see you have changed your appearance. Is Lestrade losing interest in you already?”

          “Ooh, aren’t we funny today? Positively hysterical, you are.” Molly, unable to locate the filters, and in desperate need of more coffee, finally improvised with several paper napkins, and spooned the grounds in with a generous hand. “And the answer is no. Greg finds me as amazing, beautiful and captivating as always. The new hairstyle is for me.”

          “Delicious and exquisite too?” Sherlock asked with a smirk, “Why not fascinating and glorious while you’re at it”

          “Heavenly, intoxicating and…juicy, as well,” Molly added, grinning.

          “Juicy? You are ridiculous, Molly Hooper.”

          “Ah, ah, ah! We haven’t gotten to the Rs yet!”

          He snorted and she laughed at him. While it was not unheard of for Sherlock to unbend and participate in a bit of tomfoolery every now and then, it did not usually take place at St. Bart’s. Molly felt like he had something on his mind that he perhaps wanted to discuss, and was trying to be affable. She would wait for him to bring it up though, no need to scare him off with heavy-handed questions. She just hoped this had something to do with John. And that it was positive. Positively delightful.

 

******

 

          “Greg!” John closed his laptop and set it aside, standing to greet his friend, who had shown up in the doorway of the flat. “How was your fishing trip?”

          “Fantastic! Robby and I had a great time, lots of lager, lots of fishing—we even caught a few.” Greg breezed in, looking brown as a nut, his silver hair rather disheveled. “I dropped my bags off at home, cleaned up and thought I’d pop in and say hello. Didn’t want to disturb Molly at work, this is one of her teaching days and she’ll be distracted. Where’s Sherlock?” He asked, looking around.

          “At Bart’s, had some research to do, he said.” John still smiled, but there was something…

          “You two, uh, you know… _okay_?” _Leave the gossip to the women, just a one word response to let me know you aren’t depressed or suicidal._

          “Fine.”

          _Oh c’mon! You can give me a bit more than that, mate._ “Fine, that’s good.” Greg tapped his fingers on his knee. “So no…awkwardness?”

          John chuckled, “You know Sherlock; the man’s a positive genius for awkwardness.”

          _Close-mouthed bastard_. “That’s true.” _Gonna make me drag it out of you, eh?_ “Doesn’t really answer my question though.”

          John looked a bit awkward himself, but also amused, “Greg, are you trying to find out if anything… _happened_ between me and Sherlock?”

          “I don’t want details!” Greg held out his hands, as if to stave off a veritable tidal wave of over-sharing. “Just trying to be a good friend, make sure you aren’t sitting around like a sad, mopey bloke in some daytime program on telly.”

          “How do you know how blokes act on daytime programs? Have a bit of a guilty pleasure, eh?”

          “I’ve been home sick during the day,” Greg said defensively, “I see things. Like how you’re avoiding giving me an answer.” _That’s it, Greg old top, turn the tables on him_.

          “Maybe some things are…private.” John’s control cracked and a huge grin spread over his face. Sickening really. But a bit sweet too. That was nice; his friends were having happy private times and feeling all good and happy about it.

          “Oh ho, private the man says! It must be terrible then, if John Watson is keeping his mouth shut.”

          “I thought you didn’t want details!”

          “I don’t!”

          “You’re not getting them! What Sherlock and I had was between us.”

          “I bet there wasn’t anything between you,” Greg cackled, a look of broad insinuation on his face that a blind astronaut on the International Space Station couldn’t have missed.

          “Don’t be crude,” John shot back, “There were trousers.” His expression indicated he hadn’t meant to admit that.

          “Oh ho, trousers! John, I don’t know if you know this, but when one bloke loves another bloke, and they want to have non-baby-making sex, they have to take off their trousers. Just thought I’d tell you, since you seem to be new at this.”

          “I think I can manage my love life.”

          “Apparently not, if there were trousers involved.”

          “There was bare-arse grabbing involved as well, you big, dumb, lumbering cop—“

          “Oi! I don’t want to hear these things! John, learn to keep private things private!”

          “I really hate you, Lestrade.”

          “Naw, you don’t. I’m impossible not to like.”

 

******

 

          Seven and a half hours. Sherlock had blighted her lab like a morose, sighing shadow for seven and a half hours. Molly was too busy with students and lab work to pay him much mind, but if he didn’t stop sighing and twitching, she was going to slip something in his coffee and lock him in the supply cupboard for the night.

          After the last of her students had exited the lab, Molly went around tidying, making a few notes for the anatomy class professor, and making sure everything was in place, properly turned off, and that nothing had been left behind. Sherlock was still on his stool, curled over his microscope like he had been turned to stone.

          “Alright,” Molly sighed, hugging her clipboard to her chest, “Everyone’s gone and you’re arse must be in agony after all day on that stool. Out with it.”

          He made a show of taking his time to sit up and turn and face her. “Out with what, Molly?”

          “Whatever it is that had you lingering about the place all day, waiting on me to be alone. Everyone’s gone, the evening shift is at tea and we can finally talk about whatever it is that is bothering you.”

          “Your deductive skills are—“

          “Less empty protestations and more talking, please. Greg is waiting for me at home, I haven’t seen him in four in a half days and I want to get home so I can snog him silly and then shag him into the ground.”

          Sherlock looked…something. Intrigued? Horrified? Relieved?

          Molly headed for her office, expecting he would follow and she was not disappointed. Sinking into her office chair, she nodded for him to close the door, which he did. “Now, sit down and tell me what it is you have to tell me, or ask me what you want to ask me.” She softened her tone and smiled at him, “Friends, remember? Whatever it is, I’ll not judge you if that’s what you’re worried about.”

          He hummed, but did not respond. Sherlock was standing next to the door, looking agitated.

          “Does this have something to do with John kissing you?” That got a response. His head whipped toward her and he definitely looked agitated, and also a tiny bit embarrassed. “John and I had lunch, he was very…he was very upset, Sherlock, thinking he had endangered your friendship.” Should she? “He was also having a hard time dealing with this for himself personally.” Sherlock was still as a rock, not looking at her any longer. “You told me before that you consider yourself asexual, so if the feelings you’ve admitted to me you have for John are hard for you to deal with, don’t you think that he might have an equally difficult time expressing his attraction to a man for the first time?”

          “How do you know that?” Sherlock asked, looking at her properly, “That he is bisexual and that he has never before…been with a man?”

          “John talked to Greg and me for quite a long time last week. He was worried that he had messed things up between the two of you, and he was struggling a little with a lifetime of denying he was anything but straight.” Molly felt a surge of hope when she saw his face, which looked somewhat thawed from his previous frozen expression of emotionless detachment.

          “We both feared, then,” Sherlock murmured, almost to himself. “It was—John has…experience.”

          “With women?” Molly said cautiously, wondering if this conversation was going quite where she thought it was.

          “Yes, obviously.”

          _Okay, setting aside the rude, petulant tone for now_. “And you don’t have experience, of…any kind.” Awkward, awkward, awkward. How had she somehow gotten involved in Sherlock Holmes’ sex life? “Do you, do you want experience? With John or anyone?”

          “I never before cared about sexual gratification, or romantic entanglements of any kind. Any feelings I had for John were something I put aside, given our dynamic. But, well, since my sister—“ Sherlock made a sour face, and Molly dared to pat his hand sympathetically. “Since all that has occurred, and I have begun to recall things, how they were, how I was, before…and I have reassessed my notion of personal feelings. Ella and I have discussed many things, including my former inability to acknowledge that I was human in all ways…and, well, I have experienced feelings of what I suppose you would call longing.”

          Molly patted his arm, scooting a little closer. Feelings! He was having them! Sharing them! Surely the apocalypse was nigh. “Forgive me for being forward, but, uh, are those feelings sexual?”

          “Not all of them. But yes.” Sherlock slowly turned red before her fascinated eyes. “Last night we—I wanted only to talk to John but he was unclothed and things…devolved.”

          _Screaming, I am screaming on the inside. Can you tell, you great big adorable genius? Look at your face, your wittle, cute, infatuated face!_ “Sherlock,” Molly managed to get out of a tight throat, her face nearly quivering with her effort to keep a giant smile off her face, “Did anything happen between you two?”

          “There were…” an expression of shyness was certainly not one she had ever seen on his face before, “Things occurred.”

          Molly pinched her lips together and stared at the floor, gathering her thoughts. She continued to pat his arm and he continued to allow her. Finally she raised her head, “Okay, not really sure how to say this except to come right out with it. Sherlock, while I’m happy to listen if you need someone to talk to…and you can always depend on me for whatever advice I can give…I’m not sure what it is you want. Do you need…advice?”

          “Molly Hooper, what advice could you give me about having sex with a man?” At her exasperated look, he corrected himself, “As a man, I mean. With a man. Two men, together.”

          “Yes, got it, thanks. Familiar with the concept of gay sex.”

          “But you’ve never—“ He looked appalled, “Oh God, you have—stop thinking! I don’t want to think of you breeching—“

          “Stop talking!” Molly screeched in turn. They glared at one another, red faced. “I am very carefully not going to think about that anymore and you are not going to attempt to deduce anything further and you are furthermore going to delete this from your mind. NOW.”

          “Done and done,” he said, shuddering. “Now can we please—ugh, no, still there, lingering in my mind. Dear God, woman, you are far more licentious and—and adventurous than I would have suspected.”

          “Everyone always underestimates the quiet ones,” Molly said with a giggle. “But please move on. Back to my question: are you here because you need to talk to me about something?”

          “While I would prefer to talk to no one about this, I need, well, someone else’s input as I fear I am too close to the matter.”

          “Well, ask away and I’ll input as best I’m able.”

          “Do you think…this is purely hypothetical of course…do you think that there’s…if a man were to _finish_ before it was time, would you think ill of him?” Sherlock was tense under her patting hand, “Of his lack of control.”

          _Oh poor dear love, look at your face, you must absolutely_ hate _having to ask me about this_. “It’s not always something that’s in a man’s control,” she said matter-of-factly. “Especially if it’s his first time, or it’s been a long time, or he’s particularly aroused. Some men are more sensitive to stimulus than others; some men have a harder time finishing. You know physiology has a lot to do with it. There are cock rings, to help men last longer.” Pat, pat, pat. “But to answer your question, no, I wouldn’t think less of a man. It’s happened with men I’ve been with and it’s just one of those things. Sex is fairly ridiculous, if you really think about it, and it helps to be practical, and to have a sense of humour.”

          “John was very practical.” Sherlock looked less like the mopey figure that had hidden out in her lab all day; there was a bit of perk to him. “He was still very much interested in—in things.”

          “John has a lot of interest in your things,” Molly said cheekily, dimpling at him. “And as a man and a doctor, he’s familiar with all the vagaries our bodies can throw at us. Talk to him, Sherlock. I’m sure he’d rather you do that than brood on it and worry.” She patted his arm one last time. “Whatever happens between you two—or whatever doesn’t happen—he loves you. He’ll always be there for you and you should be there for him.” _Go home and have sexy times and stop looking fragile and confused. I want my own sexy times without worrying about you_.

          “Cock rings…” Sherlock had his phone pulled out, bumping into the door as he exited her office. Molly flung off her lab coat, snatched up her bag and hustled out the door behind him, locking up swiftly. “I shall research this.”

          “Of course you will.”

 

******

 

          “I feel like I’m cheating on you,” Greg whispered, biting her earlobe. Molly shivered and tipped her head back against his chest. He was behind her, one arm locked around her torso, one forearm lightly brushing over her nipple every time he moved. The other hand was touching her through her jeans, the pressure, and the sensation not quite enough, so that she arched into his hand, wanting more. Maddening, delicious man. She could feel his very evident arousal pressing against her bum, his heat burning her through both their jeans. “This new hair, and these tight jeans…what have you done with my Molly?”

          “She’s still here,” Molly gasped, reaching back between them to cup him in her hand. “Just new packaging. Oh God, Greg, I missed you…”

          “I missed you too. Mm, someone’s eager.”

          “I am, I won’t lie. My eagerness is positively scandalous.”

          “So is what you’re doing with your hand. It makes me want to strip off your very tight jeans and bend you over that sofa and show you just how much I like it.”

          “So what’s stopping you?”

          “Nothing.” Greg growled, and proceeded to remove her jeans quite handily. He took her knickers with them, and left her naked from the waist down. “Lean over.” He crowded her, his rough clothing abrading her sensitive skin, “Brace yourself,” he warned, biting her neck lightly, and dropped to his knees. His big hot hands, deliciously rough, caressed her legs, and teased her lips, as he kissed her hip, her thigh, her—

          “Oh,” Molly whimpered a bit as he grazed her buttock with his teeth, and then bit her very lightly. She pushed back against his face, dipping her knees to keep his fingers moving against her throbbing clit. “Greg…”

          “Someone is very, very wet and very, very eager. Did you touch yourself while I was gone?”

          “N-no.” Molly moaned and wished he would plunge his fingers into her, move faster, harder. She needed heat and friction and to come, _now_.

          “Not even when I called and told you all the naughty things I was going to do to you when I came home?” Greg pulled his fingers away and Molly gripped the back of the sofa.

          “Not at all. You bastard.”

          He laughed, and spread her feet with his, pushing her face down over the back of the sofa, one hand on the back of her neck. She could have moved if she wanted to, only she didn’t want to. “That’s my good girl. I’ll have to reward you for your self-control.” Teasingly, he swirled the crown of his prick in her juices, brushing over her clit. Molly bit the throw pillow in front of her face, tears starting to trickle out of her eyes. She was beyond ready.

          “Oh, God, sweetheart, you’re incredibly wet,” Greg thrust halfway in and then pulled back, almost all the way out of her. “And hot as a furnace. I bet it will only take a few strokes and you’ll be coming.” As if to test his theory, he pushed into her and then slowly pulled back, once again almost all the way out. He did it again, not allowing her hips to push back and gain purchase.

          “Stop playing around,” She told him, a dangerous edge in her voice, she pushed back, taking him all the way inside her, and milked him with her inner muscles. “Fuck me now.”

          “So bossy. And such a mouth on you. I have plans for that mouth.”

          Greg kept one hand on the back of her neck, and the other lightly popped her buttock in a stinging smack. Molly yelped and moaned, quivering around him. His eyes rolled back a little. Molly wasn’t the only one who was worked up and primed to come. Every time he spanked her, her pussy tightened around him. He did it again, and then a third time, and cursed at how close he was.

          “Greg, please,” Molly begged, trying to push back, get him to move. She didn’t have any leverage, and was only able to affect so much. “Please…”

          He took his hand off her neck and started moving with intent, trying to stave off his orgasm, which was right around the corner. Molly was bracing herself on her hands and thankfully most of her caterwauling was muffled by the pillow she was biting, because he was fucking her hard and he knew for a fact the neighbors were home. “God, I missed you, sweetheart. I can tell you missed me too, you’re dripping.”

          “Greg, please touch me,” Molly panted, and he reached around her hip to slide his fingers into her wet heat. “Harder, please. Oh God. Harder!” When she was this worked up Molly refused to go slow, or make gentle love. Greg gave her what she wanted, rubbing his stiff fingers over her clit and thrusting faster. At her pleading, he rubbed faster, harder than he normally would and she screamed, remembering at the last minute to bury her face in the pillows.

          Unable and unwilling to hold off any longer, Greg released his control and snapped his hips hard, beginning to come in long glorious pulses. Molly’s own orgasm was still causing her to flutter and pulse around him, and he dripped sweat on her back as he leaned into her soft bottom, riding out the last of it. For just a minute he hung over her, aware he was too heavy and should move. When he pulled out she whimpered, and Greg helped her turn over and he put his face to her dripping pussy, licking and sucking hard at her still hard as a diamond clit, glorying at their combined mess. She came again, harder and faster, yelling breathlessly into her much-abused throw pillow.

          “You taste incredible,” Greg said, taking his hands off her hips and straightening. He grinned. She was upside down, head down in the sofa cushions, her face red and her hair a wild, sweaty mess. “You look like you got a proper shagging.”

          “Hrnnp.”

          “Missed me that much, did you?”

          “Nnnn…”

          “Did I melt brain cells?”

          A dazed nod. Greg laughed and pulled her up, dropping her over his shoulder and headed for the bathroom. “Time for a shower and perhaps a little shower head. Ha ha, get it? Shower head!” Molly bit his bum.

 

******

 

          All is normal here, just one newly out as bisexual—oh yeah, must tell Harry and Mrs. H—man pretending that everything is hunky dory as he helps his daughter eat her dinner. Not at all worrying because he hasn’t seen his flatmate…friend…boyfriend? since dawn. After a night of what was not exactly sex but was close enough to count, thank you very much.

          This is not one not quite out as bisexual man who had sexy occurrences with said flatmate/friend/boyfriend worrying that he sent Sherlock off into a mental breakdown. The man had been celibate and emotionally constipated and considered himself asexual all of his life, and then here comes John “Shags a lot” Watson and sexes him into more than he’s ready for.

          It certainly isn’t a man stewing in worry and sexual deviancy, hoping there is going to be more sexy occurrences in his future. With that emotionally constipated will-o-the-wisp he damn well loves and wants to have more than just sexy occurrences with. Love and embarrassing things. The sorts of schmoopy things that Sherlock Holmes is never going to go for.

          Unless he does. Never know. He didn’t go for sex before last night either. Man of mystery. Lovely, sexy man of mystery, with kissable lips and a bum made for grasping. And those long legs.

          Abort! Abort! Cease and desist all thoughts of lips, bums, legs, sex and sex related things while daughter is awake and in the room.

          But when she goes to bed…well, he’s an adult. A newly out adult. A newly out adult with a curious flatmate/friend/boyfriend and lots of ideas for how they can have fun without making Sherlock uncomfortable. Lots of ideas. Lots and lots…

                   


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toby the cat is disgusted at the behaviour of his humans. Molly and Greg spend a lazy morning in bed, while across town, John and Sherlock do the same. Mrs. Hudson gets an eyeful.

_Six months later…_

          Finally deciding it was safe to come out from hiding behind the sitting room curtains, Toby leapt lightly to the rug and padded into the kitchen, sniffing at his empty food bowl and stopping for a brief drink of water. Following his nose, he jumped up onto the kitchen counter and found a splash of bacon grease that his mistress’s mate had missed whilst cleaning up after breakfast. Thoroughly licking the tasty and unexpected treat, Toby’s sensitive hearing was tuned in all the time to the faint sounds of his mistress’s happy laughter coming from the back of the house.

          Bacon grease obliterated, Toby sat on his haunches and cleansed his face, paying special attention to a suggestion of grease on his whiskers. Once done, he hopped to the floor and padded silently down the hallway, intent on checking on his people. He didn’t like crying and loud voices, and had made himself scarce when the hubbub began. Now, however, it seemed safe to venture into the mating room; but being a wise cat, Toby proceeded with caution, lowering himself to the ground and looking around the door before he crossed the threshold.

          His mistress and her mate were sprawled across the bed, relaxed, smiling and clearly having just completed a successful mating. Toby’s sense of smell detected the ripe smell of sex, salty sweat, fading soap, the musky smell of his mistress’s mate and the more powerful, to his nose, aroma of his mistress, which had soaked into the walls of the house over the time it had been just the two of them. Toby slunk into the room and used his strong back legs to leap lightly onto the top of the tall chest of drawers, from whence he could survey the room.

          His mistress was curled next to her mate, limbs tangled together, kissing and rubbing her face on the man’s bared belly. Toby was well aware how an otherwise modest and respectable male could be seduced by her dulcet tones and soft hands into disregarding his dignity and allowing her to pet his vulnerable underside. Even he had fallen prey to her wiles and allowed a certain embarrassing amount of behaviour better suited to a kit. Toby submitted only so far before he recalled his pride and would show her the sharp edge of his fangs. The male, however, was positively wallowing in her attentions.

          It was quite shameful.

          Toby decided his vigilance in observing the chicanery of the neighboring dog from the sitting room window was in order and turned his back on the rutting humans.

 

******

 

          “Mmm, love,” Greg sighed blissfully, combing his fingers through Molly’s hair and allowing himself to settle a little more deeply into their delightfully cushiony mattress, “I don’t think I could move if the building caught fire.” Her giggle drifted up from where her head was pillowed on his middle, and he felt her small fingertips walk up and down his shin.

          “I hope that if the building catches fire you can manage to save yourself…even if you have to run out into the road naked. I can’t carry you, I’m afraid.” Molly kissed his belly and nuzzled his belly button, tickling him, but not enough to rouse more than a wiggle out of him. “But try to throw on at least a pair of trousers, will you? I don’t want everyone seeing what a stallion I’ve snagged.”

          “Stallion,” Greg snorted, and Molly pinched his big toe.

          “You are…well hung, sexy and powerful…phwoar!”

          “You’re clearly sex addled, Molly Hooper.”

          “I’m overcome by your stallion-y stamina.”

          “You’re mad,” Greg laughed, and her head bounced from the force of his amusement. She raised her head and grinned at him, her face flushed with happiness. Crawling up his body, Molly draped herself over Greg’s chest and kissed his laughing mouth until he kissed her back. “Ah, sweetheart,” he finally whispered when they pulled back for air, “I’m so lucky…how did I get to be so lucky?”

          Molly was resigned to being teary for the foreseeable future and didn’t bother to do more than blink away the moisture in her eyes. “I think we’ve made our own luck…or maybe the universe decided we had paid our dues and rewarded us.”

          “Must be it,” Greg agreed, kissing her tear-wet cheek and tucking her head under his chin. “I never expected you to propose,” He mused, stroking her arm, “Total surprise. Some detective I am.”

          “I wanted it to be a surprise,” Molly assured him, she tipped her head back and smiled at him, “You looked gobsmacked, Greg.”

          “And then when you went down on your knee…must admit, I like that you were so traditional about it. Thanks for not filming it or doing a song and dance or anything.”

          “Can’t carry a tune, remember?”

          Greg hummed absently, and continued stroking her arm. Molly snuggled back into his chest, needing to be skin to skin with him. Their lovemaking after he accepted her proposal had been tender and ecstatic and they had been lingering in bed for the last two hours, unwilling to part. She was happy, so happy; words hadn’t been invented for the level of happiness she was experiencing.

          “You don’t feel cheated, do you?” Greg asked some time later, sounding worried. “I mean, you asking me instead of the other way around?”

          “No!” Molly protested, sitting up and leaning over so she could look at him properly, her face serious but relaxed. “I want to be married to you. I don’t need a fairytale proposal or a lavish wedding. I asked you because I wanted—because I _still_ want—to marry you, because I love you, because my heart was so full that I couldn’t _not_ say the words. It wasn’t because you hadn’t, or to guilt you or anything.”

          He drew her down for another kiss, “I didn’t think it was a power play. I just want to make sure you don’t feel cheated because you asked me instead of me asking you.”

          “I’m utterly happy.” That earned her another kiss, and Toby, who had returned to see if his people were done mating, flicked his tail and retreated.

 

******

 

          Never in the past had John thought of himself as an exhibitionist. Not particularly shy or modest (shared locker rooms, army barracks, physio and a lot of one night stands meant he was comfortable with his body) but not really used to putting on a show.

          Until he started dating Sherlock Holmes. And wasn’t that a bit of a turn up? All those years of denying he was gay, denying they were a couple, and here he was, dating and shagging the man. Well, shagging sometimes. Sherlock didn’t have a particularly high sex drive, and a lot of the time they just fooled around, or John took care of things alone, or Sherlock watched while John put on a bit of a show.

          Like now. John was propped up on his pillow, right leg relaxed, left leg bent at the knee, nude and relaxed. They’d slept in, Rosie being on a play date, and Sherlock had actually slept, and they’d woken up tangled loosely in the middle of Sherlock’s superior bed. He wasn’t allowed to kiss the younger man until they had both brushed their teeth—finicky behaviour from a man who kept body parts in the flat—but then John had spent a good half hour lazily kissing Sherlock. He wasn’t always interested in sex, but the man was addicted to kissing. John quite liked it. Maybe it was a lowering of his libido from age, or maybe the companionship and kissing and laughter and mad adventure was enough and sex was just a side note. Or maybe it was just that Sherlock was enough. But John had found that kissing in and of itself was often enough.

          This morning, however, the kissing had gotten hot and John had let his hands roam, caressing his lover’s long body until Sherlock murmured and after that John kept his hands away from Sherlock’s lap. Sometimes he touched John while John masturbated, but sometimes Sherlock liked to watch John while keeping his hands to himself, which at times left him feeling a bit like a science experiment, but was mostly just hot. Now he was running his nails lightly through the faint trail of hair on John’s chest and belly, brushing the backs of his hand along his ticklish side and hip, and pinching and tweaking his nipples.

          John rolled slightly to his right side, his right hand continuing to stroke his cock, his left hand coming up to cup Sherlock’s jaw, savoring his faint beard stubble. They shared another kiss, and John trailed his lips over Sherlock’s jaw and throat, inhaling his sleepy smell and enjoying how pliant and relaxed he was.

          “God, you’re lovely,” the older man sighed, touching his lips lightly to Sherlock’s gorgeous mouth, biting lightly at his lower lip, smiling into his pale, mesmerizing eyes. Sherlock was one hundred percent focused, captivated by John’s actions. A faint blush stained his high cheekbones at John’s words. He was shy when it came to praise for his physical form, and John loved that he was the only one who saw him like this. “Your scent makes me dizzy…I went to the clinic yesterday and I could smell you on my shirt, it made me smile all day.” John plunged his hand into Sherlock’s curls, appreciating the lush, silky weight of them twining around his fingers.

          “You just have to look at me and I want you…from the first time we met, God, Sherlock, those eyes of yours…in the lab that day Mike introduced us, you captivated me.”

          “John,” Sherlock purred in his lovely, deep baritone, dipping his head to touch his lips to the fluttering pulse in John’s wrist, looking up through his lashes to devastating effect, “I’ve never understood why people were so focused on sex. They do the most ridiculous things to fulfill their urges. Until you I honestly thought I was exempt from all that.”

          “Glad to be the one you’re willing to make an exception for,” John gasped as Sherlock lowered his hand to fondle John’s balls. “God, yes…” he let his head tip back and pulled faster, “Ah, love.”

          Sherlock bent his head and kissed John deeply, sliding his hand between his legs until he could circle and press his finger over John’s perineum. John cried out into his mouth and came in long, exquisite waves, his hot come pooling on his belly. Letting go of his over sensitized cock, John ran his hand up Sherlock’s arm, his other hand flopping over his eyes.

          “Thank you, John.”

          John giggled breathlessly, moved his arm slightly to look at Sherlock out of one eye, “I should be thanking you—thank you by the way—why are you thanking me?”

          “You’re welcome.” Sherlock smiled, drawing a lazy finger through the cooling ejaculate on John’s belly. “I was thanking you because this is enough for you. I worried if I would be enough for you.”

          John uncovered his eyes and smiled tenderly, “You’re enough. We’re enough. If it got any more perfect I wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

          Sherlock blinked away a suspicion of moisture and assumed a haughty look, “John, perfection cannot be obtained by anyone. Certainly not in six months.”

          John’s grasp tightened on Sherlock’s wrist, and suddenly Sherlock was on his back, John over him, grinning a dangerous grin. “Oh, yeah? What time line do you think is reasonable then?”

          Sherlock grimaced as John’s sticky belly clung to his sleep shirt, “You’re a filthy and violent man, Doctor.”

          John hung his head, lips not quite touching Sherlock’s, and smiled wickedly into the gleaming eyes of his Sherlock, “You love it, too.”

          “God help me, I do.”

******

 

          Downstairs, Martha Hudson hummed as she put together a breakfast tray. Those boys hadn’t stirred yet. She’d just pop up and bring them tea and a few nibbles. All that…activity…worked up a powerful appetite.

          She mounted the stairs and set the tray down on a small credenza, tutting when she found the flat door unlocked. Walking in, hands full, she was intent on making her way to the coffee table when she heard a creak. Looking up, her eyes widened. “Oh, good morning John!”

          Swallowing a giggle, she watched as the good doctor went brick red and then fled down the hall. His bare bum was a lovely sight, though not half as delightful as the rest of him. There was a yelp and the bedroom door banged as Sherlock emerged from the short hallway.

          “Ah, Mrs. Hudson. Tea, perfect.” Apparently totally unconcerned that his dressing gown was hanging open and his nude form, pale and looking like one of those marble statues at the British Museum, although even better because he was a real, living, breathing man, was on display, Sherlock greeted her nonchalantly.

          “Good morning,” she tittered, setting down her tray while he fixed his dressing gown and sank into his chair. “Looks like a very good morning.”

          For the first time he looked faintly embarrassed, “Er, yes. Run along now, I’m sure you have things to do.” His ears were red, she noticed with an inner giggle.

          “Not really,” Martha assured him, perching on the arm of John’s chair.

          “Busy woman like yourself must have plans,” Sherlock tried again.

          “Later today I’m having lunch with Mrs. Turner, but no, not at the moment.”

          Sherlock narrowed his eyes, “You do realize John won’t come out of the room until you’re gone, don’t you?”

          She smiled at him, “Oh yes.”

          “And you further know that if he is denied his morning cuppa for much longer, _I_ will be the one to suffer the consequences.”

          “John is so modest,” Martha commented, “Nothing to be embarrassed about. He’s got a very nice—”

          “Mrs. Hudson!”

          “—body. Those jumpers _are_ misleading, aren’t they?”

          “I demand you stop thinking about John’s unclothed form!”

          “You’re a very lucky man, Sherlock, a lovely, lusty fellow like John in your bed and yet here you are, shouting at me.” She tutted, stood, straightened her apron, “If I were you, I’d go in there and put him in a proper frame of mind with a little hide the sausage. And don’t forget his tea; John’s a beast without his tea. The best way to keep a man happy is regular rumpy pumpy and a full belly.”

          “Dear. God.”

          Waving cheerily, Martha ducked out of the flat and giggled all the way down the stairs. Her lovely boys. No doubt they’d be back at it like rabbits once John was done yelling at Sherlock. She’d noticed that Sherlock got a bit hot under the collar when John started yelling. To each their own.

          Hmm. Maybe she should call Henry for a little tussle of her own…

         

         

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank each and every one of you who read, left kudos, commented and encouraged me. I've thoroughly enjoyed writing this, Greg and Molly are adorable and I love them dearly. However, I think I'm at the end of this tale. I know this last chapter is shorter than usual, but I was running out of things to have happen in their little world :)   
> I love a happy ending but I'm not normally one for ending with a proposal, wedding or a baby, as I believe life can be as wonderful and fulfilling without those things as much as they can be with them. And of course, life doesn't suddenly stop happening because you get married. However, I wanted to put a bow on Molly and Greg's relationship, and there you have it!  
> I also wanted a little glimpse into John and Sherlock, six months on. Their relationship may be unconventional, but that's them, and they're happy with it.  
> Hopefully this was a satisfying ending and you don't feel cheated. I may revisit this world again, but if you just want a Molly/Greg fix, check out my one-shot, Unexpected Heat with our favorite lovebirds. I'll also be writing and posting more Mollstrade in the future, so stay tuned!


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